The Watch (31 page)

I lower my voice. There’s to be no more contact with the LN, is that clear?

His eyes meet mine with a brooding discontent. Then, quietly—so quietly that I can hardly catch the words—he says: Understood, Sir.

I stick an unlit cigarette into my mouth, making an obvious effort to control myself.

That’s all, First Sergeant, I say.

I watch him stalk out, and then get up and walk agitatedly over to the Plexiglas strip that makes up the only window in the hut. It’s coated in a thin layer of dust. I press my face against it and look outside. Long shadows lie across the base, the late afternoon light tamping down on everything. Although there is no breeze, occasionally the flaps of some of the tents flutter of their own accord. When I turn away, the room seems very dark.

I return to the desk, uncap a small flask, and pour stale coffee into a mug. The old-fashioned clock on the desk ticks away the seconds. Stirring sweetener into the coffee, I drink it in a single gulp and send for Tom Ellison next. When he enters, I hold up the mug with a grimace and say: This is the worst damn coffee I’ve ever had! I mean, it’s not like I’m expecting espresso, but this stuff is rotgut.

I’ll treat you to the Screaming Eagle blend at Green Beans the next time we visit KAF, Sir, he says with a smile. It’s my favorite kind.

Then: You wanted to see me?

Yes, I did. How you doing, Lieutenant?

It’s been here and there, Sir.

I’m not surprised. I’ve been in a pretty numbed state myself since the firefight. It’s difficult not to be, seeing that there are patches of dried blood all over the base.

I’ll have it taken care of, Sir.

Well, there’s that, of course. But there’s also something else.

The LN outside?

Yup.

He nods, looking troubled. It’s proving a major distraction.

No kidding, Lieutenant, I say tersely. Has everyone gone out of their fucking minds?

He stares at me like a deer in the headlights, startled by my sudden change of tone. Ah, well, I guess … he stumbles a bit before
recovering: I guess the men aren’t used to having a female suddenly show up in the kill zone after months of isolation, Sir, especially after a battle that’s seen us sustain casualties. They’re simply not psychologically prepared.

No shit. And I don’t suppose I’ve been blessed with the good fortune of having competent officers who can communicate to their men that we’re not here to offer TL fucking C.

He flushes. Don’t worry, Sir. I’ll read them the riot act.

Yeah? You telling me you didn’t know that it was one of your sergeants who was the NCO on duty?

No, Sir. I became aware of it … after the fact. He hesitates, before adding: And, in all honesty, I should probably have mentioned that right off and—

And also dealt with your subordinate without waiting for me to bring it up?

Yes, Sir. My apologies, Sir. I suppose I’ve acted in ways that have surprised me.

Join the club, Lieutenant, Whalen says as he walks back in.

’Lo First Sarn’t … I greet him curtly. What is it now?

He thinks for a moment. Then, without looking at me, he says: Actually, I dropped by to let you know I’m about to have the girl brought in to the medical tent to have her evaluated. I want Doc to examine her stumps and replace those filthy rags with clean dressings, at the very least.

I say nothing. Instead, I link my fingers together and look at him steadily for a few seconds.

Then I say: Permission denied, if that’s what you’re asking. We’ll wait for the ANA to deal with her when they show up tomorrow. It’s their job.

With all due respect, I don’t think the ANA are medically competent, Sir.

We’re foreigners, and men. She’d be perfectly within her rights to refuse our help. She probably will, by the way, if I know anything
about their culture. And if you force things, we’ll end up with a perfectly avoidable incident.

It’s still worth giving it a shot. We’ve a legal and ethical obligation to give her care, Sir. I’ll try to persuade her to—

Don’t sweat it, First Sergeant, I interrupt, suddenly running out of patience. You may
believe
you’ve a responsibility toward the girl, but I
know
I have the larger responsibility toward everyone in the base.

I turn away from him and address both of them: I think this has gone far enough, don’t you? I need you to compartmentalize this thing and park your sentimentality somewhere else. As leaders, you need to keep your cool when everyone else is losing theirs. We can’t all of us suddenly go nuts about this girl. We’d have to be perfect suckers to fall for that ploy. I mean, it’s only been a coupla days since we lost Lieutenant Frobenius and the others. The least you can do is to remember who killed them and get ahold of yourselves.

They stare at me. The silence in the hut couldn’t have been more complete. Then Ellison takes out a handkerchief and blows his nose.

So you still think she’s been planted there deliberately, Sir? he says at length.

What else? I reply.

To what end? Whalen asks suddenly.

What end? Oh—I’m convinced that her companions are biding their time on those slopes, just out of our sight. The moment we let down our guard—BANG! And the fact that she’d be in the way wouldn’t slow them down. She’s a woman: worthless to them.

I don’t know, Sir, Ellison says, obviously torn. I mean, wouldn’t they have struck when First Sarn’t went out of the wire to make sure she was clean, Sir?

That doesn’t mean I’m gonna allow her into the base when we’ve all recognized the distraction she poses for the men. I can’t take that chance. We’ve lost so many men, I’m beginning to feel like we’ve all got bull’s-eyes painted on our foreheads. I no longer have a wide margin for taking chances.

Yes, of course, Sir, he says awkwardly.

But I’ll tell you what, I add. I’ll show you something that may convince you that there are enough holes in her story to make me continue to believe she’s making the whole thing up.

I get up from the desk, walk over to the wall behind me, and take down the map that’s pinned up there. Then I walk back and spread it out on the desk.

Take a look at this, I tell them, and they stand up and lean over the map.

I locate Tarsândan and then trace a line with my finger to the valley that she said she’d come from. That’s eleven kilometers as the crow flies, I observe, and twenty-three kilometers by a broken-down dirt track that zigzags between three towering mountain ranges. Not to speak of the streams she’d have to ford—here, at the foot of this mountain, and then again at this place.

I straighten up and look at them with a smile.

Now: if you really want to believe her story of crawling those twenty-three clicks all by her lonesome self on that plank on wheels, be my guest. Attend to her medical needs. Do whatever else it takes to make her trek worthwhile, because it would’ve been a feat without parallel. But if you share my doubts, then I’m going to ask you to wait until the birds get here tomorrow. It’s the least we can do to respect the memory of the men we’ve lost.

But what if her story is true, Sir? Ellison asks.

Which part of it?

All of it.

That her brother and his men weren’t part of the Taliban? What the fuck does that matter, given that we were attacked by them and, what’s more, sustained severe casualties. You can hardly blame me if I’m not interested in his story. Or hers, for that matter.

No, of course not, Sir … But
she
wasn’t part of the attack, and if she did make it here on her own to claim her brother’s body, wouldn’t that constitute grounds for consideration on our part?

Ellison’s persistence is beginning to get on my nerves. Making no attempt to hide my annoyance, I snap back: How do you fucking know that she wasn’t part of their attack? She could have been a spotter, or a scout, or a hundred other things besides.

To my astonishment, Whalen backs him up. He says: With all due respect, Sir, given her physical condition, it’s hardly conceivable that she could have taken an active part …

Jesus Kee-rist! I explode. You’re talking about a girl who claims she used that two-bit cart to come down here from the mountains!

I’m sure you know what I’m getting at, Sir.

The look in his eyes is so clearly one of petition that I have to look away in disgust. It would have to be my luck, I think bitterly, to have my company staffed by fucking bleeding heart First Sergeants and newbies straight out of training.

Isn’t that what makes us different from the enemy? Whalen persists.

I don’t need a lecture from you about what makes us different from the enemy.

So there’s nothing we can do to help her, Whalen says abruptly. Is that what you’re saying, Sir?—that we’re no longer making distinctions between unarmed civilians and armed combatants?

For a moment, we stare at each other. I’m about to give him a dressing down, when I have a fleeting vision of the girl kneeling in her cart, her burqa spilling over its confines, her hands raw and bleeding from pushing against the ground. I gaze at my own hands, the fingers thick and powerful from many generations of masons on my father’s side. They were uncomplicated men, independent and fierce. Whatever they grasped became theirs.

I hear Ellison shift uncomfortably and glance at him.

I give a thin smile. Tell you what, I remark, as a concession to the two of you and your fucking scruples, I’ll speak to Battalion to see if they can check out her backstory. I’m expecting to hear from them anyways regarding the drone that’s been scoping out the slopes for
signs of the enemy. If they give me an all clear, and if there’s even an iota of truth to her tale, I’ll let you evaluate her—
and
I’ll sound out Colonel Lautenschlager about shipping her to a field hospital.

Obviously taken aback, Ellison opens his mouth, but then closes it again.

Whalen clears his throat. If you feel that strongly about it, I’ll hold off, he says with reluctance. But I’ll despise myself every minute of it.

He must have thought that the concessions needed to be mutual and appears taken aback when I suggest otherwise. You’ve waited a day and a half, I say dismissively. We’ve no idea how long it’s been since she lost her legs—probably months, if not longer. A few more hours won’t make a difference.

He nods stiffly, turns without a word, and walks out of the hut.

I stare after him, glower at Ellison, and address him while putting away the map.

Now it’s your turn, Lieutenant. Give me the lowdown on exactly what happened with this whole damn business of carrying food out to her.

He looks chagrined.

I guess it all began when the men came up with the idea of a contest modeled on the movie
Fight Club
, Sir, to decide who was going to be the one to go out to her.

Did they beat each other to a pulp?

Sort of, Sir.

Who won?

Spc. Simonis, Sir.

Whose ass did he whup?

Pfc. Grohl, Sir.

So it was Simonis who took the food to her?

Yes, Sir, accompanied by the terp.

Well, that’s a relief. I’d hate to imagine Grohl face-to-face with
her. That boy hates the locals. We’re gonna have to keep an eye on him.

Yes, Sir.

What kind of food did Simonis bring her? Fucking turkey and apple pie?

The men warmed up some MRE stew, Sir, and Pfc. Ramirez made one of his trademark Philly cheesesteaks.

And she turned it down?

Yes, Sir, she did.

I shake my head in disbelief—and then I begin to chuckle.

You gotta hand it to her! Jesus, if I had her in the company instead of a bunch of wet-nosed snots, we coulda overrun those slopes quicker than you can say motherfucker. In any case, now we know how she’d respond to a medical examination. She’d send us packing.

You think?

I know. I hate to be such a hard-ass, Lieutenant, but when you’ve been in this game for as long as I have, it becomes second nature to look beneath the surface of things. Your survival—and the survival of your men—depends on it.

You’re probably right, Sir, he says, and pauses. This war isn’t turning out to be what I’d expected, Sir, but that’s probably my lack of experience.

I rivet my gaze on him. It’s not what Lieutenant Frobenius expected either. And he had plenty of experience.

He flushes, and his pale blue eyes grow paler still.

Luck of the draw, I say bleakly. You gotta go when your time comes.

No room for second chances, Sir?

Very little, Lieutenant. This whole country is like one massive IED for us—and once you step on one of those things, you’re lucky if your legs are all you lose.

What about the girl, Sir? What kind of luck does she have?

We’ve been looking each other in the eye, but now we simultaneously turn away. After a while, I say: I must admit I’d expected to find a boy behind that ghostlike shroud. In fact, I was convinced it was a boy—something about the voice reminded me of a fucked-up creature I’d once encountered by a river near Baghdad. His voice was pitched high with trauma, yet he had this strange composure, an unnerving coldness.

He looks discouraged.

She’s affecting the men, Sir: I can see it.

I’m not surprised, I reply. Hell, she’s affected me. It’s impossible not to be affected; we’re only human. Something like that eats away at you from the inside. But as you can tell, I gotta draw the line somewhere, and with good reason. We’re not here on a fucking humanitarian mission. I need the men to transition back from tea and sympathy to combat mode—and the sooner we can get the girl out of here, the sooner that will happen. It’s important for us to feel normal again. It’s very important.

Yes, Sir.

It’s all that matters, in fact. We gotta stay at the top of the food chain. It’s the law of the jungle, Lieutenant.

He nods wordlessly, and I reach for my laptop, signaling the end of our conversation.

After he leaves, however, the first thing I do is to put in a call to Battalion as I’d promised Whalen. I feel a curious satisfaction in getting that out of the way.

1800.