The Watch (24 page)

In a manner of speaking, Jackson.

It was in a movie once. A whole city of the blind—cops, politicians, lawyers, doctors, everyone. And each group was blind for its own reasons.

Lee says: You nervous, Jackson?

’Course not. Why?

’Cos you won’t stop talking. I’m finding it distracting.

You’re an asshole. Do you know that?

You want to go there again? Lee says, surprised.

Jackson falls silent. Then he says: I’m just tired. Anything’s better than this waiting around. I’m lookin’ for ways to stay awake.

Try thinking for a change, Lee snaps.

Anyway—Jackson says, patting his M-4—havin’ this killing machine with me at a time like this certainly gives me a warm an’ fuzzy feeling. It’s like I’m fucking invincible.

He stands up and flexes his arm exaggeratedly. I’m made of hard rock, my M-4 carbine, and fucking infinity.

You can’t be made of fuckin’ infinity, dude, Lee counters. It’s intangible.

Whatever, Mickey Mouse. Amerika ist wunderbar.

I grin as I caution him: If you’ve made it this far, you’re doing pretty good, Volcano. But don’t let it go to your head, because you could very well die the moment you let your guard down.

Lee snickers: No shit. It would be a brutal end to a short and brutal life.

You shut your trap, Mofo, Jackson snaps. You’ve made it this far ’cos I always got your back. Most people would’ve been on life support at this point with some other partner.

Most people wouldn’t survive with you by their side, dude, Lee says calmly. Which is another way of lookin’ at the glass, half empty or half full, is what I’m sayin’. They wouldn’t be able to handle your epically epic ego.

It ain’t ’bout my ego, fuckwit, it’s ’bout my M-4, the most instant cause of death associated with taking me on. Last man who tried it got chopped into two perfectly symmetrical pieces. You saw it happen, so it’s a scientific fact.

You got it all wrong, dude. Reason the man exploded was exposure to the deadly Jackson persona. That’s why he kept on head banging like he was at a fuckin’ Metallica concert after initial contact.

Fine, it’s me
and
my M-4. Point is: I must be some kind of god …

The words have barely left his lips when Lee curses under his breath: Shit, I see it again! It’s a dog … he exclaims, peering through his thermals. Fuck, it’s probably Shorty!

Not a chance, Jackson says. I know Chuck left him with Cap’n Connolly ’cos he asked for him.

I’m already sighting through my TWS.

Then Lee says: There’s more than one! Christ, what are those things?

To my left, I hear Barela exclaim from the mortar pit: Holy fuck! What the hell is goin’ on?

I still don’t see what they’re talking about. All I can see is the damn fog—my high-tech scope filled with fog. Again I search the field, willing the night not to slip out of control.

A groggy Duggal emerges from the dugout. Yo, guys, what’s all the commotion? Jerkily, he picks up his rifle.

I straighten up. I’ve glimpsed eyes gleaming in gray faces. Weaving in and out of the fog are one … two … three hyenas, with the biggest animal loping up front, followed by two slightly smaller ones on each flank. They’re closing in on the cart.

Holy shit, Lee whispers, just look at ’em! They’re ugly motherfuckers. Those massive jaws.

D’you want us to holler real loud an’ make a racket, First Sarn’t? Jackson asks.

Hang on a moment, soldier, let me think. Then I answer: Nope. We’ve no idea how they’d react. I don’t want to provoke them into attacking the woman, and we’re too far away to intervene if that happens.

We could gun them down, Duggal suggests.

We can’t take that risk either. We might hit her. The fog’s made our visuals difficult.

What, then? Jackson says impatiently.

I raise my left hand. Quiet, I whisper.

I make up my mind. Rising to my feet, I say: Hang on a mo, all right?

I run over to the mortar pit. Pratt and Barela look at me expectantly.

Turn on the searchlight and focus on the cart, I order. That’ll create a ring of light around her that should scare them off. And if it doesn’t, it’ll make it easier for us to shoot them.

Pratt complies instantly. A powerful beam of light bathes the cart.

I hope it don’t wake the sister up, Barela says.

There’s no helping that, I reply.

I look through my thermals and see her stirring inside the cart.

Them critters be leavin’, Pratt says, looking through his rifle’s scope. That was good thinkin’, First Sarn’t.

I zoom in to where I last saw the animals. I spot their retreating backs: they’re headed in the opposite direction. They glide side by side, their silhouettes overlapping, little spirals of fog coasting in their wake. I keep my thermals focused on them, watching them recede into dots until they disappear.

I feel myself relax and lower the device. Pratt is looking intently at me.

They’re gone for now, I announce, but we can’t get lazy ’cuz they might be back. Ya’ll leave that light on for a bit, and then turn it off.

Couldn’t we just leave it on through the night for her, First Sarn’t? Pratt asks.

And have some Taliban sniper take it out? Use your head, soldier. I tap his helmet with my knuckles. But keep checking in on her if that makes you feel better. Switch it on periodically in case those critters get it into their heads to pay us a return visit.

Done deal, First Sarn’t, Barela says and grins. We’ll do the job right. You can depend on us. Fuckin’ hyenas!

They remind me of the tundra, Pratt says suddenly. But there we got furies.

Both Barela and I stare at him.

He spreads his hands. It’s what we call wolves back where I’m from. I forgot where I was for a moment, he explains with an embarrassed smile. I dunno what came over me.

A moment of madness, Barela says.

No, Pratt replies. He tilts the searchlight and sends it probing through the field and into the lower slopes, and then brings it back to the cart. No, he says again. I ain’t gone mad. But I’d like to sometimes. ’Cos I’m not always sure I understand the way things are done.

I look at him with surprise. I don’t think I’ve ever heard him talk as much.

What things? I ask.

Like that girl in the cart, First Sarn’t. I’d like to cover that sleepin’ girl with a proper blanket an’ slide a pillow under her head. It ain’t right for her to be there like that. I thought we was here to help these people.

You
have
gone mad, Barela says quickly. He tilts his helmet back a little.

It’s jes’ my opinion, Pratt says, so I wish you’d stop attachin’ madness to it.

You can’t say anything about this situation, I observe. Nothing like this has ever happened before. We’re still working things out.

We’re disrespectin’ her, First Sarn’t, Pratt says in a low voice. No offense meant, but there are lines that can’t be crossed. Even here.

Ramirez had better get here soon, Barela growls. You need some sleep.

So you don’t think I have a point? Pratt persists.

Hell, Barela exclaims, I’d do it if that’s what First Sarn’t thought needed to be done! I’d bring her a blanket and a care package and throw in some TLC free of charge.

I think ya’ll had better hunker down and get back to attending to your duties, I say with a smile. I need you to get your game faces on.

They fall silent, and I leave them and return to where Duggal,
Jackson, and Lee are waiting for me. I’m gonna do a quick check of the perimeter, I tell them. And then I’ll be back.

Again I walk along the Hescos and then crisscross the base. My footsteps echo in the silence of the fog. I pass the bee huts, the command post, and Connolly’s office, then the mess tent and the open lot where the Humvees are parked. I walk rapidly past the ruins of the ANA huts and notice the brown smudges on the whitewashed walls where some of the Afghan troops had rubbed off opium from their fingers. I reach for a cigarette, but find that I’m out. I try to focus, but there’s only one thought in my head: the prospect of sleep, of rest, of closing my eyes and waking up at least eight hours later. I come back to myself only when I find I’ve reached the remains of the watchtower, where I dragged Brandon Espinosa out of the flames—too late to make a difference.

Why’s it so dark here? he’d whispered. Then: I’m sorry, so sorry … before closing his eyes.

I rest my head against the one remaining beam that rises vertically into the fog. I press myself against it with all my strength until my arms begin to shake and my chest tightens. I feel a scream coming, but choke it back and turn away instead. The fog is so thick, it’s like everything is dissolving. I begin to run, blundering over uneven ground. I go fast, past tent ropes and stacked ammo boxes. I try to avoid them but miss a hole and trip. Staggering heavily, I crash into a wall. A small animal, probably a rat, scurries away. I crouch motionless, and the fog encases my head, my chest, my hands. A chill runs through my body. I pick myself up wearily and head over to the ECP. Climbing up on the Hescos, I take up position next to Jackson.

He glances at me and nods to his right. Doc’s out there.

I turn my head and glimpse the flicker of a cigarette. Taylor? I call out.

Right here, he replies out of the darkness. I squint my eyes and see him leaning against the Hescos, staring out at the field. I decide to
go over and bum a cigarette. He fishes out a pack of American Spirit even before I ask. I pick one out. American Spirit, now that’s a real cigarette. Where’d you get these?

Care package, he says.

Lighting up, my head heavy, I ask him what he’s looking at.

What do you think? Our WMD out there. What a fucking pile of horseshit we’re standing on! It makes me sick.

You gotta hang loose, man, I reply. No point in cutting yourself up. There’s nothing you and I can do about that situation. It’s out of our hands.

How long have we known each other, First Sarn’t?

Too long, I say wearily. Why do you ask?

Because I envy you your ability to take things in your stride.

I wonder if I should tell him about my panic attack from moments ago, but decide against it.

Abruptly, he says: This is my last tour—if I survive, that is. I’ve decided to quit.

Caught off guard, all I can do is stare at him.

Have you decided what you want to do when you go back? I ask at length.

I’m going to try out for med school. I’ll be older than most applicants, but that’s what I want to do. I just have to work out the money equation, see if I can handle the debt.

I don’t want to rain on your parade, but that’s a big
if
, isn’t it?

Sure it is, but nothing ventured, nothing gained … As his voice trails off, he narrows his eyes at me. So: is that why you keep renewing your tours of duty? Because you don’t really believe there’s a place in civilian life for vets like us?

His question makes me feel resentful, so I evade it. Instead, I gesture with an outstretched hand toward the darkness of the field. In a tone of mocking sentimentality, I say: What back home could possibly compare to this?

But he’s already speaking again: Maybe I’ll set up shop in the badlands of Youngstown after I get my degree. Make up for all the killing I’ve seen.

There’s gotta be as much killing there as here, I point out.

He smiles sadly. Still and all, it’s my home turf.

You sure ’bout this? I wouldn’t want you to be settin’ yourself up for a fall.

’Course I’m not sure, he replies. But one thing I do know is that this war’s not worth another casualty. That much I
am
sure of.

I watch him as he stands there, hands resting on the Hesco, unmoving and stiff, a slight breeze ruffling his hair. I feel as if I’m seeing a different person than the one I’ve known all these years.

Congratulations, I murmur. In that case, ya’ll got a good plan.

He scrutinizes my face, then returns his gaze to the field.

In a quiet voice, he says: I can’t do this anymore. That girl out there is officially my breaking point. I don’t want to be part of the SitRep that writes her off as collateral damage.

You’re assuming she’s innocent, I counter. You’re ignoring the fact that it might have to do with their whole religious shtick.

His tone and glance are pointed. No, I’m not assuming her innocence, as a matter of fact, he says. But I do know this much: if she turns out to be a suicide bomber, it won’t be because she hates our religion. I mean, I don’t even have a fucking religion. It’ll be because we whacked her brother and we’re in their country. How difficult is that to understand? When you kill people and wipe out their families, strafe their homes and burn down their villages, litter their fields with fragmentation bombs and gun down their livestock, you’ve lost the whole fucking battle for hearts and minds. I mean, who’re we trying to kid? Ourselves? Is it any wonder they’re fighting back? We’re not winning this war; we’re creating lifelong enemies. It’s time to admit that our own leadership has ring-fenced us with lies.

I don’t reply. I can’t altogether say that I hadn’t seen this coming.
All the same, I’m left feeling a mixture of understanding and regret. More than anything else, though, his little tirade leaves me feeling even more exhausted than I was before.

No response? he prompts without looking at me.

All I can muster by way of a response is: It sounded like you needed to get that off your chest.

And I’m not done, he says with feeling. I’m tired of playing these boys’ games. I’m tired of being surrounded by nineteen- and twenty-year-olds who’ve been conned into believing they’re fighting the good fight. I’m too old to play these games—games with youngsters who lack the maturity to understand the consequences of their actions, for themselves as much as the people they’re primed to kill. I’m tired of supplying an endless array of prescription pills to help these kids cope with their fears and their confusion and their guilt. You know what I mean: I’m the fucking gatekeeper to the valley of the dolls, and I can’t take it anymore. I’ve lost my ability to pretend.