The Watch (17 page)

Masood looks embarrassed as he translates.

Fucking in-credible … Connolly says with amazement. He folds his arms and shakes his head. She won’t take no for an answer. Gentlemen, do you think she could have attended Model U.N.?

It’s a lame joke, and we smile feebly.

Doc says: What I would like to know is why she won’t leave the cart. That’s kinda strange, isn’t it?

Sergeant Bradford studies her through his binoculars.

She’s carrying stuff, he announces after a moment. She’s got a spade, a brown paper bag, a folded blanket, I think, and something else … it looks like one of those old-fashioned pie-plate machine guns, but with a sawn-off barrel, which doesn’t make sense.

Masood says: They use all kinds of weapons, Sir. Some of the Taliban have guns that are more than a hundred years old.

Connolly glances at me. You’re very quiet, Lieutenant.

I clear my throat: That’s because I don’t know what to tell you, Sir. On the one hand, if she’s telling the truth, then it’s a golden opportunity to debrief her, get her biometrics, and extricate all kinds of information about her brother and their tribe. But we can’t do that unless we’re dead certain that she isn’t a suicide bomber, and we won’t know that until we go out to her, which means exposing ourselves to a clear line of fire from the slopes. So it’s a Catch-22.

I thought we’d established that she’s out of their sniper range, Sir, Simonis calls down to me.

They may have longer-range cannons, soldier, I reply.

Maybe we could try telling her to leave, Whalen says, and see how she reacts.

Oh, you mean like: thanks for dropping by, Connolly says with a smirk, and please do come again? I mean, come on!

Well, Sir, if she’s genuinely grieving, she’d stick around.

And if she’s a suicide bomber, she wouldn’t?

Maybe not an entire day—or at least not when the temperature hits the hundreds. It would take a lot of commitment to just sit there roasting in the sun.

And in the meantime what are we supposed to do? Hole up inside the fucking base until she makes up her mind either way?

Do we have a choice, Sir? If our ANA were here, we would’ve sent them out to deal with it, but they aren’t, and so it’s up to us, isn’t it? I mean, we’re going to have to improvise: there’s no SOP for this situation.

Connolly eyes Whalen quizzically.

After a moment, he turns to the interpreter: Why don’t you tell her that, Masood? Tell her that she must leave—that she has no place in a combat zone.

Her reply is long and emotional, and her voice breaks in the middle of it.

There’s an awkward silence on our side, and then Masood says all of a sudden: Comandan Saab, perhaps I could point out to this insolent woman that she has no role to play in a Muslim burial? What she is suggesting is sacrilegious. This is a fact.

Connolly smiles. His eyes glint as he glances at us, and then he rests his hand on the interpreter’s arm. Well done, Masood, he says smoothly. Go ahead and tell her that, and then switch off your megaphone. We’re done talking.

Turning to me, he says: Keep your eyes trained on her, Lieutenant. And watch the slopes. Call me if there’s any sign of the enemy.

How long do we put up with her, Sir?

I like what the First Sarn’t suggested. Let’s see how long she sticks around. If she’s still here tomorrow morning, we’ll reexamine our options.

He touches his helmet as he walks past us. I’ll see you later, gentlemen.

We watch through our binoculars as Masood announces his final
message. The megaphone crackles loudly as he switches it off. The woman lowers her white flag just as Simonis calls down from his perch on the Hesco.

There’s a vulture circling her, Sir. It’s been descending for a while, riding the thermals.

Shading my eyes, I study the bird. It’s massive.

Keep an eye on it, I tell Simonis, batting away a fly from my face. If it gets too close, kill it.

A moment later, a shot rings out, and the vulture plummets down with the dead weight of a rock. It crashes into the ground with folded wings. A feathery plume of dust rises into the air.

Connolly comes running back. What the fuck was that?

Masood points silently to the bird.

Connolly puts on mirrored sunglasses and beckons to Wonk Gaines and one of the men on guard duty, Derek Serrano. Tapping Masood on the shoulder, he says briskly: Come on. We’re going out to palaver.

I thought we were done talking, I say before I can stop myself.

He doesn’t bother to reply, but halfway to the wire, he calls back over his shoulder: I changed my mind, Lieutenant. Give us cover.

I clamber up the Hesco wall and crouch beside Simonis.

I’ll be your spotter, I tell him. Any false move on her part, and I want you to drill her, no questions asked. All right?

Yes, Sir.

Whalen climbs up beside me and stretches out his massive frame.

I nod in Connolly’s direction: Something in this situation has really gotten under his skin. This sorta direct involvement is way below his pay grade.

Whalen gives me a sidelong glance.

He’s out for blood, he says calmly. After the casualties we’ve taken, it’s personal.

He picks up Simonis’s M-24 and uncases it. This yours, I take it?

Yes, First Sarn’t, Simonis answers.

I’m borrowing it for the duration of the captain’s visit.

He estimates the range and adjusts the reticle by dialing the scope.

Ya’ll keep an eye on her, he tells Simonis, and I’ll watch the slopes.

He stretches out next to me with his eyes clamped to the rifle’s scope.

Below us, Doc begins setting out his IVs and saline bags and making his own preparations for any eventualities, should they arise.

I call out to a team from my platoon’s Weapons Squad, instructing them to hoist an M-240B on top of the Hesco wall and cover the slopes. In the event of a firefight at short notice, it’ll be the deciding factor in our favor.

The team sets up the gun and settles down to wait out the outcome of Connolly’s sortie.

Under my breath, I ask Whalen: So—d’you think she could be sussing us out?

He measures his words carefully: The Taliban are masters of strategy, as we’ve learned through experience. I’ll bet they’re biding their time somewhere on those slopes. Meanwhile, they send this woman out to keep an eye on us. The moment we let our guard down—BOOM!

So their kinetic ops agent is a girl in a makeshift go-kart?

Could be. Either that … or she’s a decoy, though I’ve my doubts about that. There’s an element of brazenness in all of this that makes me believe she could be a black widow.

They’d have to be counting on a shitload of gullibility on our part. Surely, they’re not that irrational?

Can I throw some words of wisdom at you, Lieutenant?

Shoot.

Listen up, then.
A wise man once said that nine-tenths of tactics are based on logic, and taught in books: but it’s the irrational tenth that is the test of generals. It depends on pure instinct, which is as natural in a crisis as a reflex.

I reflect for a moment, then turn my head and smile. You just helped me make up my mind, I tell him. She’s a suicide op.

Why do you say that?

Because she’s the perfect Trojan horse in the wake of a firefight that’s left every one of us jittery and exhausted. They’re aware that our rules of engagement prevent us from hosing her out of hand. So they’re counting on us to make just that one critical mistake: believe her story and let her get close enough. As a plan, it’s brilliant.

He nods slowly in agreement. She sure has the perfect motive, and revenge is as natural to these people as the air they breathe. She could be the dead man’s sister and a suicide op.

From below us, Doc calls out: Guilt by association, First Sarn’t?

Whalen looks faintly amused. What’s sauce for the goose is sauce for the gander, Doc. They’re downright crazy about revenge in these parts; you know that as much as anyone else. I believe—if I can recall a briefing—the Pashtun tribes call it badal.

Sergeant Petrak, who’s taken up position next to him, now speaks up.

Fuck the Pashtuns, he says tersely. We have our own ways of getting even. I’m waiting for her to make a single false move in order to settle things. Then we can get our own back—and Lieutenant Frobenius and the others can rest in peace.

We
don’t do revenge, Sergeant, Doc protests.

Speak for yourself, Sergeant.

Doc’s about to reply when a man from the weapons team calls out: Movement on the slopes!

I raise my binoculars instantly; Whalen sights through his scope.

I catch my breath: it looks like a dog.

Whalen says: Well, I’ll be damned, ya’ll. It’s Shorty.

How on earth did he sneak out of base? I ask.

Beside me, Simonis drawls: Dawg’s been going AWOL, Sir. You’re gonna have to dock him points.

I wouldn’t tell the C.O. if I were you, Lieutenant, Whalen says. He’d have a fit.

Speaking of the captain, Simonis says, it looks like they’re having a pretty intense powwow.

I watch Connolly’s broad shoulders go up and down as he gesticulates animatedly. Gaines and Serrano have their guns trained on the woman. The interpreter keeps turning from her to Connolly in the course of his translation. There’s something about the picture that makes me uncomfortable, and I’m not sure why. Finally, Connolly gestures with both hands before turning on his heels and marching back toward us. The interpreter has to hurry to keep up with him. Behind them, Gaines and Serrano walk warily backwards with their guns still pointing at the figure in the cart. Just as Connolly reaches the Hescos, the woman turns the cart around and wheels it in the opposite direction.

Is she leaving? I ask no one in particular.

Whalen jumps down from the Hesco and leans the M-24 rifle against a sandbag. He walks over to Connolly, who’s slapping dust from his trousers.

She asked if she could bury her brother’s cronies, Connolly says irritably. I said fine.

So she’s not leaving? Whalen asks.

Nope.

Why won’t she leave the cart, Sir, could you tell? Doc asks. Is there something the matter with her legs?

We were too far away, Connolly says. And, quite frankly, it wasn’t the first thing on my mind.

He glances up at me. Keep an eye on her, Lieutenant.

He seems composed, almost bored. He leaves with Whalen while I scan the far end of the field where the woman has reached the bodies by this time. I raise my binoculars and watch her take a spade out of the cart. It glitters as it catches the sun. She lowers herself to the ground rather clumsily and appears to drag herself to the nearest
body. Then she straightens up and begins digging. I watch lumps of earth fly into the air. Soon she’s surrounded by a pall of dust.

I overhear one of the men say: Man, she can wield a spade!

Someone else says: She’s kinda short, though …

I lower my binoculars, feeling like a voyeur. Beside me, Simonis puts down his rifle. He coughs to attract my attention.

So we’re supposed to just sit here and watch her bury those three dudes? he asks. There’s an undertone of disbelief in his voice.

That’s right, I tell him, feeling inexplicably irritated.

His mouth twitches. Way to go, he says softly. America … fuck yeah!

What was that, Specialist?

He looks at me without expression. It’s from the movie
Team America
, Sir. From the creators of
South Park
, the TV show.

I know, I say. I know what
South Park
is. I just don’t see the relevance of your remark.

He runs his hand over his face. I can’t tell if he’s hiding a smirk.

You heard the captain, I say, annoyed. His orders were clear.

Yes, Sir. I heard the captain. Orders are orders.

Somehow, I feel the need to explain further: These women are very different from the ones back home, Specialist. They’re used to hard work. As a matter of fact, they do all the work. I’ve even heard it said that the Taliban use them as pack animals to carry their equipment around because, as men, they themselves couldn’t be bothered. And when there are no women—or mules—to be found, they simply leave their stuff behind.

Those Taliban are pretty fucked up, Sir, he says blandly.

You got it, Specialist.

His mouth twitches again: I guess we’re different.

Yes, I reply in a strained voice.

I turn my head toward the woman again—then turn back to Simonis and dismiss him. He swings down from the Hesco wall without a sound.

See ya later, Doc, he says to Taylor, who’s busy putting away his medical gear. I wait for him to take leave of me as well, but he doesn’t look up as he shoulders his two sniper rifles and strides off.

Then Taylor leaves as well, and I’m suddenly on my own on top of the Hescos. I realize that I’m still feeling dissatisfied, though I can’t put my finger on the reason why. Then I realize it has to do with Connolly. I’m peeved at the way he went marching off for his palaver without giving me adequate time to make the necessary arrangements to cover him. It was a risky move in an ambiguous situation, and it’s precisely the kind of hotheadedness we can do without close on the heels of a vicious firefight. Perhaps I am going too much by the book, I conclude, but it was utterly irresponsible on his part.

Why are you so annoyed? a laughing voice asks. Connolly’s always been something of a loose cannon, or didn’t you know that? It’s part of your job as a platoon leader to make up the slack.

I look up to see Nick Frobenius standing before me with his arms folded. I have to squint my eyes against the light to make out his features.

I was under the impression, I say stiffly, that one’s thoughts, at least, were private.

Oh come on, Ellison. You sound like you’ve got a stick up your ass. Nothing in this company is private.

It’s not right, I say feebly.

He bursts out laughing. What can I say? Life’s a bitch. As for going by the book, he adds, if that’s your operational template, then you ought to have taken a desk job at Bagram.