The Sandbox (20 page)

“Get some,” Hazel says very quietly, almost as if he’s not aware he’s doing it. It sort of slips out of him. He watches Nevada’s mouth with glazed, pink eyes.

“Get some. Seemed like an inch from my ear. Get some.” Nevada chuckles in a dispirited way and shakes his head. “Like the man’s feeding hogs. My head still fucking hurts.”

“Look here, look here,” Salis says, standing up and showing us the holes in his pant leg just above his right knee. We see how the bullet caught a bit of extra fabric and passed right on through without so much as brushing a hair on his leg. “You ain’t the only one who dodged one. A few inches higher and my dangler wouldn’t dangle.”

“I don’t know how we got out of that wash,” Doc Greer says. “It felt like magic.”

“So, so, so,” Nevada says, yanking us back into the story. “We ran toward them pretty fast, but we flew on the way back, grew wings and took off flying. I saw smoke coming off of Doc Greer’s boots. My lungs were whistling and burning.”

“Tell them about the cat,” Salis says, swaying back and forth in his chair. His face is intent and greasy with sweat.

Nevada looks down. It’s hard to read the expression on his face. When his head comes back up, his eyes are slits. “The fucking thing was dead. Rankin was right. The whole Goddamn thing was a trap. They knew we were coming. And that’s the shit of this whole Goddamn thing. How the fuck did they know we were coming? Boyette didn’t have a fucking chance. That Goddamn cracker. I mean, what the fuck? What was that shit? How did they know? How did they
know
?”

“Fucking right. They didn’t just see us coming up the hill. Somebody set that shit up.” Doc Greer starts to stand, then sits again.

I look at Ahmed. He’s glancing off, unconcerned, bored even. This isn’t his story, his attitude suggests, but I strongly suspect otherwise. I watch as he knits and squeezes his fingers together. My cheeks are hot with blood. He says a word, I tell myself, and I’m going to pound him. No, I’m going to fucking shoot his ass. And then I notice Lopez, drilling my head with one of his glares. I don’t look away. You fuckwit, I think. You can’t really believe I’m the one who did this, that I’d sell my buddies out.

“Jesus, Lopez,” Rankin says, “the way you look, you’d think it was you got ambushed.”

Lopez starts, as though caught out doing something he shouldn’t, like picking his nose and eating it or playing with himself in public.

“Well,” Nevada says, catching us all with his eyes once again and reeling us back, “we slow down after the poison camp. Walking and jogging. Walking and jogging. We start talking about Oli. Like maybe we should go back and get him. Boyette’s all for it. But Boyette—” He makes a deranged face. We all know how Boyette was. “That boy wanted to get a range named after him, win him a medal of honor, some shit like that. Well, he got it. That asshole. Goddamn. After a bugout like that, there’s no going back. There ain’t nothing left for us to get, I try to tell him. Nobody could of gotten out of that shitstorm. I guarantee, I told the Boy, it was over in a couple of mikes. Maybe we can come back later with a bigger force and get, well, you know, but not now. No way. And it’s coming on night now too. We’d been humping along for a good while. We hadn’t eaten hardly a bite for hours and our CamelBaks were running dry.” Nevada wipes his forehead on his sleeve, as though just the memory of this march exhausts him, which it probably does.

“It’s always longer coming back,” I say.

“It took about three days,” Salis says.

The whole team nods. Hell has a very flexible chronology and its own special measurement of time.

“Just when we’re coming down the last long stretch of the trail, we hear it. Pop, pop, pop. What the hell? we say. Somebody’s firing off the Ma Deuce on the back of our Humvee, but they ain’t firing it at us. They’re firing in the other direction. By now it’s boogie dark. All you can see are green and red tracers zipping back and forth through the night. We hustle down to the trailhead, and shit if it ain’t fucking Oli on the back of that Humvee. We got the vehicles all parked facing downhill at the very end of the road where there’s this open space large enough for a turnaround. Oli’s up in the lead vehicle, working the .50- cal, so I can just barely make him out. Damn, I think, is it a ghost? Sarge, somebody yelled out.” Nevada cups his hands around his mouth and makes like it’s happening right then. “That you down there?”

“It was Boyette yelling that,” Doc Greer says, grimacing.

“How’d Sarge get back to the Humvees before you?” I ask. It doesn’t seem possible.

“That’s what I asked,” Salis says. “I asked him, what’d you fly on, Sarge, a magic carpet?”

“He never did tell us,” Rankin says, “but I figure he must of come straight across, right down the cliff.”

“See, the trail we took curved back and forth across the hill. The slope was real steep.” Nevada tilts his hand. “If you went straight across, as the bird flies, it might be like, what?” He turns to Rankin. “A fourth the distance of the trail we took.”

“About that,” Rankin says. “Maybe less.”

“Is that what he did?” I ask. “Go straight down the cliff? Did he have rope and gear?”

“Nope,” Nevada says, “he didn’t have none of that shit.”

“He never told us how he did it,” Doc Greer says. “And don’t think we didn’t ask. He just spit and looked away. You know the way he does.”

“But then, but then,” Salis says, bouncing in his chair like a kid with the answer to a math problem. “Tell about the old—”

“I’m getting there,” Nevada says, holding up a finger. “The road right there by the trailhead is pinched up. Two cars can just barely get by. It’s tight. Just as we reach the Humvees, we see what Oli’s firing at. This beat-up Toyota truck’s coming up the road with a bed full of dirty towels. Maybe half a dozen of them. And they’ve got a heavy gun in the back.”

“And pistons with bad timing,” Cox adds. “These people can’t tune an engine for shit.”

“We get through everything—death canyon, poison stew, all of it—and now we got this shit. It was enough to make a man give up, wave a white flag and give in.” He pauses and gives us an evil grin. “Except we all know they hate Americans. I believe I’d rather die with a gun in my hand.”

“And take a few of them with me,” Salis says. “Shit.”

Ahmed laughs at this and we all turn to look at him. This quiets him down right away. What the hell is he doing in here anyway? Why isn’t he back in the village? Because he’s a fucking spy, I tell myself, that’s why.

“And then. Oh, man, I couldn’t believe it,” Cox says. He looks like his stomach hurts.

“Shit,” Rankin says, studying his thumb. “He should of known better.”

“He just wanted to help Sarge. That’s all. It looked pretty bad, remember? That truck coming and him all alone in the back of the Humvee. It looked bad,” Doc Greer says.

“Boyette jumps up and runs,” Nevada says. “Rankin tried to grab him. Tracers were coming every which way. We were moving from cover to cover. But Boyette breaks loose of Rankin and runs straight into it, unloading a clip as he goes.”

“Sarge said if Boy hadn’t of hit the gunner on the back of that truck, then he would of been a goner for sure. He saved Sarge’s life,” Cox says. He keeps rubbing his thumb and forefinger around his mouth. It’s the only clean part of his face now, a circle of white skin around his lips.

“Boy looked like he was going to make it. He got right up to the second Humvee. Then a piece-of-shit hajji stitched him right across the middle with that big Russian machine gun. About cut him in two. Boy didn’t have a chance after that.”

“The poor fuck had just about bled out by the time we finally got him in the Humvee,” Doc Greer says. “I tried, but—shit. Goddamn.”

Hazel hyperventilates, holding his throat and wheezing.

“Are you having an asthma attack, Tim?” Doc Greer asks him.

Hazel doesn’t answer. Instead he jumps up, jogs to the corner of the tent, and stands with his face against the canvas, making choking sounds. I get up and start toward him, but Doc Greer puts a hand across my chest. He shakes his head and motions for me to bend down.

“He’ll punch you,” he whispers. “It happened earlier. Cox touched him on the arm and Hazel socked him one. I don’t know what he needs, but it’s best to leave him alone. After a while he’ll tie it down or let it out, one.”

Nevada keeps glancing over his shoulder at Hazel, chewing on his cheek. He inhales and holds his breath.

“Go on, Nevada,” Doc Greer says, “tell them the rest. Tell them about the miracle.”

This seems to revive him somewhat. He shakes his head and goes on with the story. His voice is gruffer now, but his shoulders are straight and his chin is up. “And now comes the strangest part of a strange fucking day. Maybe the strangest thing I’ve seen in this man’s Army. An old woman, looks like a witch, she comes riding up behind them fucking hajjis in this Wild West wagon. Horse and all. I shit you not.” He crosses his heart with his hand. “It looked to me like she was going faster than the truck. She don’t stop when she sees those guns going off. Hell, no. She just keeps right on coming, standing up on the seat and whacking that horse with the reins. I expect she freaked those hajjis out same as she did us, because they stopped firing and braked. We don’t stop. Hell, no! Every one of us keeps running till we reach the vehicles. Rankin and the doc pulled Boyette in and the rest of us prepared to get the fuck out of there. This lady rides her Wild West wagon right on up to their truck. There ain’t a single sound in the nighttime. Nothing.”

“Half a mike goes by and nobody does a damn thing. Not one Goddamn thing,” Doc Greer says.

“Nah, a little something was happening,” Cox says. “I got the engine started in the lead vehicle. We were easing forward. They were still about forty yards away.”

“Still,” Doc Greer says.

“And then that witch woman, she makes this sound. Like nothing I ever heard before,” Nevada says in a quiet voice. “I can’t even imitate it.”

“Me neither,” Rankin says.

“It was like a wildcat,” Cox says.

“Worse than that,” Nevada says, although I seriously doubt either one of them has ever heard a wildcat scream.

“Like bloody murder,” Salis says.

“Nah,” Nevada says, shaking his head, “there ain’t a word for this sound. It’s still in my head, bouncing around, but I don’t have any words for it.”

“It
was
a word,” Cox says. “It meant something. I know it. I wish I knew what it was she yelled.”

“Fuck you?” Salis suggests, seriously.

“Whatever it was,” Doc Greer says, “she got the last word.”

Nevada clenches his fists into one big ball. “Boom.” And then stretches out his fingers.

“What?” I ask, leaning in toward him. All of a sudden I get a very strange idea. I look over at Ahmed. He’s listening closely now too. And he’s thinking the same thing I am. I know it. This is the same old lady who came to the base for the bodies.

“Old lady go boom. I mean a big boom. It cracked the windshield on the Humvee. A piece of their truck went flying and knocked a big old hole in it. Sliced up Oli’s arm pretty good, too. But shit, whatever it was that old biddy set off, it tore their Toyota
all
up. Hajjis went flying every which way. Killed them all. To a fucking man.”

“So the old lady came to save you?” Lopez asks. He’s been quiet all this time, leaning forward and listening with his whole body.

“No,” Rankin tells him, “there ain’t no way she’d of known we were up there.”

“Our vehicles were parked at the turnaround all day,” Nevada says. “Unless the same ones who told the hajjis about us told her too.”

“She had to of been chasing after those hajjis in the truck.” Rankin stares down at his hands, squeezing his fists one at a time as he considers this. “No, her blowing them up didn’t have nothing to do with us. It looked to me like she had a score to settle. Like she’d been following this bunch for a while. I don’t think these hajjis were the same as the ones in the wash. They might have been together in this shit, but they were coming from a different place. I don’t know, like maybe the plan was to smash us from both sides. They were probably waiting further down the hill. When they saw Sarge reach the Humvee, they came up the road looking to pick a fight. The old lady must of seen them a while before this and followed them. Only way it could be.”

“However it was, I’ll tell you what, that was one damn big blast,” Nevada says. “It was a shitload bigger than that IED that got us on the way to Inmar. What do you think it was, Cox?”

He thinks for a moment, tapping his chin with a thumb.

Salis gives us a serious nod. “A granny scorned.”

This gets a big laugh. The only one that’s felt right all day. But that’s not saying much. Salis smiles, not sure what to make of it. And over in the corner of the tent, Hazel begins to sob.

61

The captain catches
me as I’m heading toward the front gate for sentry duty and asks what I did with the lockbox. He keeps looking over his shoulder, and speaks in a gruff whisper even though we’re alone. When I tell him where I buried it, he seems to relax a little. He wants to know if I’ve looked inside, and just as I’m telling him about the combination lock, Cox comes stumbling past. The captain makes a loud show of commiserating with me over Boyette’s death and then strides off before I can say another word.

Cox looks like a puddle of dog puke. I’m not sure he even sees me until I call his name. If he had his arms stretched out in front of him, he could be a B-movie zombie, lurching and drooling and rolling his eyes. Once I get his attention, I ask him why Ahmed’s still on base, because Cox talks with him more than anyone else. The reason Ahmed originally got the job was because of his so-called mechanical ability. The lieutenant put him in the garage to help Cox, and the two of them still work together when he’s not out with me on the shit-burning detail. I didn’t like seeing Ahmed lurking in Common Tent 2 when weapons squad got back this morning. It has me on edge. Baba hardly ever spent time in the tents with us. It doesn’t make sense. Ahmed must have known he wasn’t wanted. Especially after what happened to Boyette. I’m surprised someone didn’t beat the shit out of him. I’m surprised
I
didn’t. Ahmed’s like a pimple that’s sprouted up between my shoulder blades, irritating but impossible to reach and pop. Cox tells me Ahmed’s living in Baba’s old room in the back of the fort. We’re standing outside the mess tent. Every few seconds his eyes flutter closed, his bony shoulders sag, and I think he’s fallen asleep on his feet. It’s not as uncommon as you might imagine. But then he jerks upright and his long, thin fingers flutter up to his face to give his cheeks a light slap. He’s the only one from the squad who hasn’t racked out.

“But why?” I ask him. “I thought he didn’t want to live on base.”

“Lopez set it up.” He yawns hugely. It seems to come up from the soles of his feet. “Ask him.”

“Lopez?” I say, louder than I should.

Cox flinches and steps back.

“Sorry, man. I just have a bad feeling about Ahmed. And about that ambush. How they knew you were coming long enough to set up a fake camp.”

“Nah,” he says, yawning again, “Ahmed ain’t such a bad guy. He wouldn’t do something like that.”

“Maybe not,” I say, but I know he is. I just haven’t worked out the how and when.

Cox closes his eyes and slowly tilts to one side. I steady him with a hand. He leans against my fingers, and even through his shirt, I can feel how bony his arms have become. We stand like this for a moment. His eyes twitch beneath their lids and he begins to snore. I feel bad about waking him up, so I decide to stand there and let him snooze a bit. With each breath, the snores get louder and louder, until finally, they get so loud they wake him up again. He starts and looks around with a desperate, frightened expression. When he realizes where he is, the muscles in his face relax a bit.

“Have you eaten anything, Collie?”

“I forced down an MRE energy bar.” He makes it sound like he rammed it down his throat whole. “A cherry one.” He smiles at the memory.

I tell Cox he should really get some rack time in. If he keeps on like this, he won’t be much use to anybody. Cox nods and mumbles something about a work detail. I’m not entirely sure he heard me. He stares off at something in the mid-distance that only he can see. I wonder if I should walk him back to his tent. When I suggest this, he waves it away. Suddenly, he’s all business, as alert as I am.

“You sure?” I say. I’m afraid he’s going to sleepwalk into something dangerous.

“I tried to rack out a while ago, but—” His eyes have got that absent look again.

“Dreams?” I ask.

“Yeah,” he says, trying to focus on me. “You know what I’m talking about.”

“Sure,” I say, and I do. Sometimes sleeping can be more exhausting than staying awake. During the daytime, I can keep the cigar box at the back of my head tightly closed.

“Hey,” Cox says as I’m walking off, “don’t sweat the Ahmed thing, man. If we start turning on each other, this place will fall apart in a week.”