The Sandbox (16 page)

47

Boyette meets me
at the gate and tells me I’m late for a general briefing. He’s hopping from foot to foot, babbling like a meth freak. “We’re finally bringing the fucking war to them, combat,” he tells me. As I’m parking the truck, he spots the elebear and smirks, asking if I’ve got a chickpea chicky hid away somewhere. He leers at me all the way to Common Tent 2. The base looks deserted. Almost everyone must be at this briefing.

The lieutenant glares as I duck in under the tent flap. There’s not much interest in my late arrival, so something big must have come up. They’ve arranged the chairs in rows. Sergeant Oliphant stands at the front of the room with a dry-erase board propped on an easel and a handful of colored markers. Someone has sketched out a crude topographical map of the area. The base is drawn in blue. The hills are brown. A series of red dashes moves out of the base and into the Noses. Scattered here and there among the brown triangles that represent the hills are green squares. Sergeant Oliphant pauses to frown as I come in and waits until I sit before he continues. I slip into a chair in the back row beside Rankin. He shakes his head when he sees me and hands me his tobacco pouch. I take out a paper and a pinch of tobacco.

I scope out the room. Expressions range from excitement to forced nonchalance to barely concealed dread. I know what this is. This is the fucking captain’s doing. Somewhere deep down in the thick of my brain, a cluster of cells tells me not to go through with his plan. And what I’m seeing here today in this tent is the start of it. There’s no question. The captain sits up front, right next to the lieutenant. When he catches my eye, he lowers his sunglasses a notch and winks. No doubt something they taught him back in spy school.

“This will only be a probe,” Sergeant Oliphant says. “General Pett wants us to get a feel for their size and readiness. Satellite photos show very little enemy concentration up there. HQ believes the insurgents in each camp number less than ten. Some of us think different. Only three small encampments have been spotted. Here, here, and here. HQ calls them shepherd camps.” Several people in the room grumble about this. He ignores them, pointing to the green boxes with his marker. “We plan to hit this one, the one nearest the base, because it’s probably the group responsible for the latest attacks.”

Sergeant Oliphant goes on to explain that a single squad, led by himself, will head up into the Noses for an early morning mission. The exact time has not yet been decided upon, but it will most likely go down in the next day or two. He stresses once more that this is only a probing mission.

The sergeant finishes by telling us, “We’re not trying to sweep every last one of these assholes out of the Noses. We’re not manned or equipped for a real fight right now.” This, his expression implies, may come later. “But with the right info, HQ might. . . .” He leaves it at that. The tent is silent. We all know this could be a big one, no matter what he says. Sergeant Oliphant looks from man to man, making brief, intense eye contact. Before I can find a suitable hiding place for my eyes, he catches me. His look is hard, but I can’t read it, and he pins me with it for an uncomfortable length of time.

Someone up front groans. Another soldier, probably Boyette, says “But I want to kill me some hajjis.” Boyette means it. He wants to spill some blood on the sand. Preferably gallons. Sergeant Oliphant himself doesn’t look all that happy about the rules of engagement either. The sergeant tells us to pipe the fuck down and explains that our roster has been shaken up over the last week, something we are all too aware of already. Because of this, the lieutenant has instructed him to try something new. He asks for volunteers. The room goes silent again. This is completely unexpected. Never in my entire time over here have I heard a call for volunteers for a mission force like this. It just isn’t done. I can only believe there’s an ulterior motive at work here, some kind of officer maneuvering. No doubt involving the captain. I keep my hand firmly pressed against my leg. The first rule of the infantryman: never volunteer for anything.

Boyette’s arm shoots up right away, no big surprise there, as do those of two or three others. After a moment, Rankin raises his hand. I look over at him and he shrugs. I raise my arm. I do my best to avoid looking at the captain. The tent fills with subdued murmurs. Sergeant Oliphant writes the names of the volunteers on the board. When he sees my hand, I swear I spot a smile crinkle up the corners of his eyes, even if his mouth stays tight and grim, and then he glances back at the lieutenant. Something passes between them, but it’s impossible to interpret. The sergeant writes out more names, mine and Rankin among them, then tells us about the new water-rationing system. We have to reduce our consumption yet again. The whole tent groans. Despite the danger of the mission, I’m relieved. I didn’t realize how much the captain’s plan bothered me until now that I’m out of it.

But, of course, I don’t get out of it that easily. As I’m stepping through the flaps of the tent, someone yanks my elbow. It’s the captain.

“You little prick,” he hisses. “What was all that about?” The captain takes a quick look around before going on. Near the end of the tent, a group of guys are joking. Salis has a squirming scorpion impaled at the end of a broken plastic spork and he’s waving it around in someone’s face and giggling. The captain frowns and hooks a thumb over his shoulder. We take a walk. He doesn’t speak for fifty yards.

“We had a deal,” he whispers between gritted teeth, barely opening his mouth. The captain grabs the meaty part of my bicep and squeezes hard. His fingers feel like pliers.

I take a deep breath. Here goes. “It would of looked suspicious if I didn’t volunteer after Rankin did. We always work together.”

The captain stares at me. I can’t see his eyes behind the sunglasses, just two tiny Durrant heads reflected in the lenses. These Durrant heads look unhappy and tense. The sunlight feels like hot wax poured over my neck and shoulders. A handful of very hard seconds tick by. He looks at me; I look at my heads. Just when I’ve decided I’m done for, the four deep grooves in his forehead flatten out and relax. He actually smiles. “Not bad,” he says, “you’re thinking on your feet. Now I’ll fix it.”

He turns and stomps back toward the common tent. As I’m rolling a smoke, the tent flap opens and Rankin calls for me to come back inside.

48

“You’re staying on
base for this one, Durrant,” Sergeant Oliphant says. “We need you here.”

I look over at Sergeant Guzman for support. He holds out his palms and shrugs. The unlit cigar jammed in the corner of his mouth bobs as he moves his shoulders. He looks seriously annoyed. Maybe it’s the mission itself, or their refusal to let me take part, I don’t know which. He chews at his cigar. I turn back to Sergeant Oliphant.

“But, sir,” I say, “Rankin and I always go on mis—”

“That’s an order, Private. Let it go, how about?”

The lieutenant glances away from the laptop. He scratches his scalp with a pencil. And then, as though it takes a huge amount of energy and patience, he turns to me. “Where were you earlier, Durrant? It shouldn’t have taken you that long to burn the shit barrels. Not by half.”

I explain about the fuel and the siphoning. The story doesn’t sound very convincing. Even the true parts sound flimsy.

“I’m surprised you got the diesel to catch at all,” Lopez says. “You can throw a lit cigarette on that stuff and it won’t burn.”

I ignore him.

“That’s what we’ve always used to burn it, Lopez. But if you’re so interested to see how it works, I can easily arrange for you to get some firsthand experience.” Sergeant Oliphant gives him the stink-eye. Lopez wisely shuts up. Then, in the silence that follows, Lopez kneels beside the lieutenant’s table. He seems to be examining the man’s boots. Is he about to give them a spit-polish? Jesus. Then he plucks something off the ground between the lieutenant’s feet. It looks like an unspent M16 cartridge.

“What are you doing, Lopez?” the lieutenant asks, his voice tight with irritation. “Get up off the floor.”

Lopez jumps back as though slapped.

Edging sideways into the lieutenant’s field of vision to try another tack, I say, “Can I ask why, sir?” The sand scrapes loudly beneath my boots and the lieutenant flinches. “I—”

“Are you questioning an order, Private?” Sergeant Oliphant says.

“No, Sergeant.” I straighten my spine and look at the lieutenant. “I’m sorry, sir. It’s just that I really want a go at those assholes. After what happened with Gerling and Studdie, I—”

“We’re all angry about what happened,” the lieutenant says.

“I’ll take his place,” Lopez says. His voice sounds strange and high-pitched. Rehearsed.

“I have something else I need you to take care of, Lopez,” the lieutenant says. “We’ll discuss it later.”

Lopez fights to keep his expression calm, but I can see he’s angry. I make a point of smiling at him.

“The rest of you, out,” Sergeant Oliphant yells, pointing at Lopez and me.

Lopez knocks against my shoulder as we leave.

Once we’re outside, I grab his sleeve. He pulls away and keeps walking.

“I don’t care if you’re promoted to sergeant next week. You do that again, Lopez, and you’ll regret it.”

“You won’t be around next week,” Lopez says without turning around. As he walks off, he mumbles something else I can’t quite make out.

49

Rankin wakes me
up to say good-bye before he leaves the wire to go downrange. It’s just after 0300. His face is smeared yellow with greasepaint. On each cheek he’s drawn twin chevrons in black. I flinch. He looks like a bad dream.

“Thought you saw the bogeyman, huh?” He bares his teeth and screws up his eyes. “Just wait until those hajjis catch an eyeful of me. They’ll need to use those turbans for diapers.”

“Yeah,” I say, knuckling sleep from my eyes, “they’ll think you’re the bassist from Kiss and go running for their earplugs.”

Rankin plays a little air bass and sings about how he intends to spend his nights rocking and rolling and his days partying. Each and every one of them.

“Why the hell are they making you wear that shit?” I ask. My heart still pounds from the start he gave me.

Rankin doesn’t answer me at first, and I think I’ve annoyed him. He’s bent over my locker. My head is still fuzzy from sleep, but I don’t want Rankin going off on a weird half-baked mission like this one angry at me. When I sit up, I see he’s written Blood for Oil on the trunk at the end of my bed with greasepaint. He waggles his eyebrows. I’m relieved.

“I’m so black, I stand out against the desert. I got to lighten myself up with this shit so they don’t spot me,” he tells me.

We laugh, but I can tell he’s wound up and on edge. Maybe not too happy about going into battle with a bright yellow face.

“I’m sorry,” I say, “I wish I was going with—”

“Don’t sweat it, D.” He holds up his hand. His right palm looks like it’s been smeared with mustard. “All that shit last night was a show. Lopez knew he wasn’t going. Why the hell else would he have come into the tent when his name wasn’t called? He was playing you. All an act.”

“You think?” I say.

“I know it, man.” His nostrils flare. “Lopez and the lieutenant had their heads knocking together like a couple of sissies. They were whispering and shit before they sent me off to get you.”

“I’m not sure. I wondered about that too, but Lopez looked pretty hacked off about not being able to go.” I swing my legs to the floor. “Who’s taking my place?”

“Doc Greer.” Rankin sits at the end of my cot and wipes his hand on the ragged boxer shorts we use for polishing boots. “Listen to me. I’m serious, D. Something’s going down. He’s laying for you, so watch your ass. Don’t be doing none of your disappearing-act shit today. Lopez is just waiting for you to screw up. If he found out about you going to that factory, he’d piss himself with joy.”

“He’s all talk.” I wanted to believe this.

“No, man. He’s looking to ambush you. Watch your shit.”

We knock fists. He gives me a worried look, as if I’m the one going up into the Noses.

“Shake one out of the tree for me, Gene Simmons,” I say.

Rankin snickers and does a little jazz hands number. For some reason this really gets me laughing. I think we’ve both got a case of the nerves. He breaks into a bit of a softshoe routine and sings, “I want to lock and load all night and shoot them hajjis all day.” He taps out Shave and a Haircut with his desert boots and slips under the tent flap.

“Two bits,” I try to say, but I’m laughing too hard to get it out in time.

I don’t even try to go back to sleep.

50

All day I’ve
been worrying about Rankin, wondering what he’s up against out there. I can’t take three steps without thinking about it. My dread comes from knowing I’m partly responsible if anything happens. It’s even worse when I’m back at the tent staring at his gear, so I head over to the latrine to read in privacy. A Harry Crews novel about snake-handlers and dogfights. The sand beneath one corner of the latrine has blown away, and now the whole ramshackle structure is off balance. Each time I shift my weight, the plywood wobbles. The latrine is a two-seater, but thankfully someone rigged up a bit of oily canvas around and between the two holes. The sand hisses against the heavy cotton fabric. Motes of dust sift in from above and make the beam of my flashlight look as though you could pick it up and swing it. It’s still too dark to read, so I crack a couple of chemical sticks. Someone has written on the tarp with a red Sharpie:
To come in here it takes guts, to shit so high I can rest my nuts.
Soldiers over here talk about the consistency of their bowel movements the way people back home might discuss the weather.

I open my book. A bodybuilder in southern Georgia is taking perverse liberties with an ex-baton twirler. Harry Crews goes into great detail. Just as I’m really getting into it, letting the story shoulder aside all those thoughts about Rankin and the rest of the heavy shit that’s cluttering up my head, something scratches against the big sheet of plywood behind me, the only solid wall. The other three sides would be open to the air if not for the ragged curtain of canvas. Another scratch. It sounds like a cat. Has a jackal gotten onto the base again? We sometimes catch them slinking in at night to paw through the kitchen scraps.

“Go sniff around somebody else’s ass,” I shout, laying the book on my knee.

“Shut up, Durrant.” The voice is muffled but familiar.

“Who is that?”

“Lower your voice, for Christ’s sake.” It’s the captain.

“What?” I say, knowing exactly what. “I’m conducting serious business in here, sir.”

“Don’t be a smartass, Durrant. Stop waxing your knob and listen to me. We’ve got plans to make.”

“But the lieutenant didn’t go on the probe.” When the captain laid it out for me the first time, this was a crucial aspect of his plan.

He makes an irritated throat-clearing sound. “Right, which is why we need to set up a little distraction for him. A controlled explosive event.”

“A what?”

“I’ve got a timer set on a grenade over near the gate.”

“Jesus,” I say, “what if someone accidentally walks by?”

“It’s safe,” he says, using the old
and you call yourself a soldier
tone of voice. The three most annoying Army expressions are: “Yo,” “Hooah,” and “And you call yourself a soldier.”

“And?” I say, rubbing my eyes and yawning. The past few days have worn me down. I feel like a steak knife that’s been used to chop bricks.

“At 0900 tomorrow, I want you to position yourself somewhere near the lieutenant’s trailer. When you hear the blast, wait three minutes and go in.”

“What if it’s locked?”

I hear a thump followed by a soft, metallic scrape. A key drops in through a hole in the canvas. It bounces once on my knee, hits the plywood seat and nearly goes skittering between my legs and into the hole. I snatch it up just before it slides into the barrel and put it in my cargo pocket.

“Half an inch to the right, Captain, and it would have been down the hole.”

“Yeah, Private, and you would have been down there right after it.”

I can’t see my way clear of this shit any more. There’s no room to maneuver. All I have are delaying tactics, and if I try another of these, he’s bound to get suspicious. The captain actually chuckles. He’s literally got me over a barrel with my pants down. And he enjoys it. This shouldn’t surprise me. The government paid good money to train him to do this.

“Where’s it supposed to be, this Goddamn box?” I ask. “Sir.”

“I’ve looked all over Saunders’s old trailer and I can’t find it. The only other person who knew about the box is Blankenship.” The captain’s breath becomes raspy and uneven. “I know he still must have it. He hasn’t left the base since the IED attack on the highway. Saunders told me Blankenship hides his important shit in a hollow place beside his window AC unit, so that’s where it’ll be.” He coughs, a dry, nervous hack.

“Captain?” I say.

“That’s all you need to know,” he says quietly. “Rap on the wall around the AC until you find a hollow space.”

“What happens when he discovers it’s missing?”

“Let me take care of that. I promise you this: when I get that box, he’ll be the one with something to worry about.”

“What’s in it, sir?”

“Oh-nine-double oh, Durrant. 0900. This is your
second
chance.

Don’t fuck it up.”