The Watch (34 page)

0545.

A little before 0600, I summon the officers for a meeting.

Whalen’s first in, followed by Ellison, then Bradford and Tanner, and, finally, Petrak as the last entrant. I begin by telling them about the new officers who’ll be arriving today. Lieutenant Dan Lafayette will be the unit’s newly appointed Executive Officer, Lieutenant Stuart Sutherland will be Lieutenant Frobenius’s replacement as
First Platoon’s leader, with Staff Sergeant Randy Mejia in for Staff Sergeant Espinosa, and Corporal Marty Holmstrom taking over the motor pool.

I pause for questions, then continue:

But that isn’t the only reason I called you here this bright and early. Following up on my promise to the First Sarn’t yesterday, I put in a call to Battalion to ask for more information on our dead insurgent, and Lieutenant-Colonel Lautenschlager got back to me this morning. We’ve learned two things. First, she spoke the truth about her brother not being allied with the Taliban. Turns out they come from one of the few Pashtun mountain tribes who hate the hadjis and were able to keep them at bay during their glory days. So that part of her story holds up. However, our local intelligence contacts could come up with nothing to support her story about whether she did indeed make the trip to Tarsândan on her own, as she claims, or was brought here by other parties. What we do know, as a result of the drone that’s been assessing the area, is that there are no—repeat, no—Anti-Afghan Forces visible on the slopes facing us. Based on that evidence, it would appear that the girl really is on her own.

There’s a rush of exhaled air around the circle.

So we can bring her in for a medical examination, Sir? Whalen asks.

Yes, we can. Have Doc set it up.

Suddenly Ellison leans forward: Is there anything to support her claims about the drone strike that took out her family?

Not exactly, I reply. There is a report of a Predator strike in one of the mountain valleys about six months ago, but we’ve no information that it struck a wedding party. As far as we’re concerned, we targeted, and successfully eliminated, a band of insurgents.

Who were our informants in the Predator attack? Whalen asks.

Locals in the Arghandab River Valley with tribal connections to the governor of Kandahar province. They’re part of our extended intelligence network run out of KAF.

You must mean our big black hole in the sky, Sir, Tanner wisecracks.

I’ll ask you for your opinion when I want it, Sergeant, I say curtly.

Wasn’t there a report some time ago about a running feud between the governor and the mountain tribes? Whalen asks.

There might have been. I don’t remember, and I don’t think it particularly matters. If there is a feud, it’s business as usual, because they’re always fighting each other. They’re all as crazy as fuck.

But it might be important in this case, Sir.

I clear my throat. What is this, First Sarn’t? Fucking CSI Kandahar?

I’m just asking, Sir.

Yeah? You going somewhere with your questions?

I’m trying to find out if the governor might have set us up to conveniently remove an important local rival. It’s been known to happen.

Bradford gives a low whistle. Ellison leans back and bites his lip.

In other words, we might have got played, Bradford says.

No, we didn’t get played, I say sharply. Our actions are determined by the intelligence we have on hand, not on wild fucking surmises—and that intelligence was provided by the governor who’s part of the present regime. The regime that we support, I might add.

My answer seems to satisfy no one. I notice Bradford avoiding my eyes. Then Tanner says dolefully: Will someone please tell me who the good guys are?

I look at him with narrowed eyes for a moment before leaning abruptly over my desk and letting them all have it. What is this, I explode, a pity party? What the hell is eating you guys? May I remind you that, Taliban or not Taliban, the fucker attacked us, and that’s the bottom line!

But don’t you think he might have attacked us precisely because his people got whacked, Sir? Ellison persists.

I don’t know, Lieutenant. I think that’s a pointless question.

I only ask because that’s what the girl alleged, Sir …

Suddenly, Sergeant Petrak asks: What’s the nearest U.S. base to her tribe?

We are, Ellison replies before I can.

His answer hangs heavily in the air. No one else says anything. The silence in the hut is awkward and prolonged.

Then Whalen says pensively, almost as if he’s speaking to himself: If the guy isn’t Taliban, does that mean we can give her back his body?

I fold my arms over my chest. What d’you mean?

Surely, now that we know she’s here on her own, Sir, there’s no doubting the genuineness of her claim. I mean, all she wants to do is to bury the damn body. Couldn’t we just send Battalion some photographs and be done with it?

I look at him with exasperation. Battalion isn’t calling the shots on this one, I reply. It goes much higher up the chain of command. Nor is the issue whether or not the guy’s Taliban. What matters is that he’s an insurgent who led an attack on a U.S. Army base. That’s why the regime wants to display the body: they want to send a clear message of potency to both their constituents and their opponents. They’re saying to the Taliban: You fuck with us and you end up like this poor bastard—and we won’t be making any more mistaken claims based on fraudulent photographs from this point on.

But the facts themselves in this case are fraudulent if he isn’t Taliban! Ellison protests.

It doesn’t fucking matter, I answer. Besides, for the regime to cancel at this stage would mean a loss of face. The details are irrelevant to them.

But are they irrelevant to us? Ellison exclaims. I mean, where’s
our
integrity? Who the fuck are we working for?

Lieutenant! I look at him in surprise.

With all due respect, Sir, he carries on, is the U.S. Army an independent entity, or are we simply handmaids to a government that everybody and their mother knows has compromised our mission from the get-go?

This guy attacked us! I reply heatedly. His people killed our people. I could hardly care less about what they do with his fucking corpse!

So we’re following the enemy’s playbook where that’s concerned, Sir?

I open my mouth and close it again. At length, all I can say is: I’m going to pretend I didn’t hear you, Lieutenant.

Bradford clears his throat and eyes me uneasily.

Sorry, Sir, but I’m with the lieutenant on this, he says.

Let me repeat myself, I say coldly. He’s not our problem. He’s dead.

So we’re letting the regime’s SOP trump ours, Sir?

In this case, it doesn’t fucking matter, okay?

I’m not sure I understand why, Sir.

Petrak cuts in: I agree. I don’t understand either.

Then he addresses me directly: Why are we here, Sir?

Whalen speaks up in my stead. His voice is curiously flat.

He says: We’re here because we have a mission to carry out.

All right, Ellison says. What’s the mission?

To support the government in Kabul, I reply.

But we know they’re crooks! They stole the election. And they’re as fucked up as the Taliban!

Maybe, but if the Taliban return to power, you can be damn sure they’ll make the present bunch seem like a fucking school of philosophers.

So that’s the standard we’re using now, Sir? The Taliban?

We don’t make those judgments, Lieutenant, I say icily. They’re made for us. That’s why we have diplomats. Our job is to fight the enemy, clean up, and clear out. I thought that was pretty clear. Apparently, I was mistaken. We don’t do politics, and, beyond a certain point, we don’t get involved in these people’s lives. The boundaries of our actions are clearly defined.

Ellison swivels his entire body in disagreement as he remarks:
With all due respect, Sir, the boundaries of our actions are leading to our losing good men to save the asses of a bunch of mofos in Kabul who’re making out like they’re on Wall Street.

I’m about to respond angrily, when Masood, the interpreter, bursts in.

I look at him in surprise.

Comandan Saab, he blurts out, Nizam has killed a lamb in your honor! She would like you to have it. Please come out to the field to accept it from her.

I try to check myself, but it’s no use. What the fuck? I snap. You can’t just barge in like this!

He seems to physically shrivel into himself, but before I can tell him to clear out, Ellison says calmly, as if there had been no interruption: If we can’t return the body, then what are we to do with the girl?

What …? I say, still glaring at Masood.

I was wondering if you had a plan concerning the girl, Sir.

I turn away from the interpreter and force myself to answer the question calmly: Battalion’s received permission from Brigade to move her out of here. They’re gonna shift her to a sanatorium in Kandahar—

At this point, there’s a wordless exclamation from Masood, but Whalen, to his credit, grasps him firmly by the arm and escorts him out of the hut. We hear him going ballistic at Masood, and before long he returns without the interpreter.

What the hell’s the matter with him? I ask furiously. Has he totally lost it? What makes him think he has unfettered access to my office? And what was that crap about sheep anyway?

I can explain, Sir, Petrak volunteers. The field is covered with sheep. They seem to have wandered down from the mountains—we’re keeping an eye out, but I didn’t know the girl had killed a lamb.

What am I supposed to do with a fucking lamb? And how did she kill it? With her bare teeth?

I don’t know, Sir.

I glare at Whalen accusingly. I thought you’d checked her thoroughly.

I thought I did too, Sir, he says.

I’m glad she’s going to get medical attention, Ellison interjects quietly.

You better be, given that after she’s evaluated at Kandahar, she’s headed for Bagram, where they’ll give her a thorough examination before sending her on to Landstuhl.

To Germany!

Damn right. We’re gonna make her a textbook example of trauma rehabilitation. She’s going to be fitted with the latest state-of-the-art prostheses. By the time they’re done with her, she’ll be able to compete in the fucking Olympics. What do you gents think of that?

The murmur of surprise that goes around the circle is succeeded by approval. Even Whalen’s features relax. I savor the moment by drawing it out.

Are we shipping her out on the same bird as her brother? Whalen asks.

I’d assume so. Why? What does that matter?

I was thinking of the stench, Sir.

Oh, for Chrissake, the CH-47 is a pretty big bird! I reply. Besides, she won’t know where it’s from.

We could have him towed behind the bird, Tanner jokes. He’s probably so bloated with gas by this time, he’ll float like a balloon.

’Cept he might get tangled in the rotors, and then they’d be left with bubble gum for their TV show, Bradford ripostes.

All right, that’s enough, I say brusquely. Any more questions?

You appear to have covered all the bases, Sir, Petrak says with admiration.

You can thank the colonel. I had very little to do with it.

All the same, Petrak says loyally, he wouldn’t have known about her if you hadn’t brought it to his notice, Sir.

Well, I suppose there is that, I admit, running a caustic eye over
my subordinates, before adding: Although there’s still one thing that I haven’t figured out.

What’s that, Sir?

Where am I gonna get the white robes and angel wings with which to dress up you namby-pambies before sending you out into the mountains to explain to the dead man’s tribe how sorry you are for what became of him.

I interrupt the smattering of chagrined laughter by suggesting that we go and get some coffee and take a look at the field.

And then we can have some breakfast before heading out to fetch her, I add.

Whalen pauses in midstride and stares at me. We’re not all going, are we?

Oh, I don’t see why not. After all the fuss you’ve made, don’t you guys want to give her a fucking parade?

There’s still a thick fog outside, Sir, he says. We may have to wait a bit until it clears.

The birds will be here at 1100, so we’re gonna need to have her ready to go before then, I reply. Shall we say 0900? And if we have to go out under cover of the fog, that’s fine.

You’re in a good mood, Captain, Whalen says with a wan smile.

Should I not be, First Sarn’t? I’m pleased with the resolution we’ve come up with for her. It’s good to belong to an organization that cares about the finer points.

I turn to Ellison.

You see, Lieutenant? Never jump to conclusions where the U.S. Army is concerned. We do have a sense of honor, we respect courage, and we do things right.

He turns crimson. On behalf of the men, Sir, he says haltingly, may I give you our thanks?

Don’t sweat it, Lieutenant, I say crisply. You’ll learn. What’s more, we’re going to get a whole lot of feel-good PR from this story. It’s just the kind of thing that gets written up—heroes with hearts, or
something along those lines. Maybe I’ll suggest it to the colonel the next time we talk. Who knows?—we may even make it to the front page of
Stars and Stripes
. Or maybe we’ll get
really
lucky and they’ll put her on the cover of
Time
magazine like that gal who got her nose cut off.

Ellison raises his eyebrows, but doesn’t say anything.

Whalen’s the last one to file out. He catches my eye and says in an undertone: Are you absolutely sure we should all go out to get her, Sir?

I tense up. Yes, I am.

May I disagree with that decision, Sir?

Jesus Christ, not again, First Sarn’t! I whisper furiously. It’s obvious we’re gonna need to have a chat. See me as soon as we’ve dealt with her, do you understand?

Yes, Sir, he says quietly, before lapsing into silence.

0630.

Sunrise.

The mist shades to gold and then red.

I warm my hands holding my second cup of coffee of the day and walk with the others toward the Hescos. The mountain peaks are crimson; the slopes long shadows of gray. Once again, I marvel, as I do almost every day, at the immensity of this landscape, and feel puny in comparison.