Weapons of Mass Destruction (20 page)

“Must be admiring your handiwork,” Sinclair said.

“Maybe he’ll offer me a job,” Pete said.

The driver took one look at telltale tracks and another at the only ravine within spitting distance, and put two and two together. The pickup started barreling in their direction. It was an old Ford, jacked up enough to clear pretty much everything but boulders. They had already rolled up their bedding and secured their gear for what promised to be a rough ride. Buck and Paco took off quite literally at breakneck speed. One misplaced gopher hole and they’d be done for.

“
Vámonos
!”

The chase was on. The pickup kept gaining on them, throwing tumbleweeds every which way as it gathered speed. They reined their horses in the direction of a low rise, perceptible only to trained eyes. Galloping over the crest, they spotted a river in the distance. With any luck, they’d reach its banks before the truck overtook them. It would be a tight race. Spurring hard once, they relinquished control of the reins and let the horses fly.

Pete let out a whoop even before the rifle cracked. They could tell from the angle of the sound that it was just a warning shot. Buck and Paco couldn’t tell the difference between blanks and bullets, let alone their trajectories. They bolted forward even faster, and both boys whooped. Another shot rang out, and then a pair in rapid succession. One of them ricocheted not ten feet from their thundering hooves. The rancher was still gaining ground, but the sheer joy of velocity made them feel invulnerable. The land was bigger than he was, bigger than the fences that tried to tame it. The trappings of civilization were just that. Traps.

When they reached the river, Buck and Paco tried to veer away, their huge heads mutinous with terror. Pete and Sinclair reined them tight and straight into the current. The riverbed dropped off precipitously, forcing them to swim. They calmed down immediately. Even in raging waters, horses entered a kind of meditative trance the minute their hooves lost contact with the ground. Survival instincts trumped fear.

The rancher raced to the brink of the river and jumped out of the truck, brandishing his rifle. Once he was stationary and could actually aim, he didn’t even raise his weapon. A law-abiding citizen, he only felt justified killing trespassers. He didn’t own the river, water rights notwithstanding. The Snake and all of its tributaries were the exclusive property of the state of Idaho. Curses, foiled again. He was shouting something, but the rushing water swallowed up the sound. Sinclair and Pete strained to hear from the opposite bank of the river.

“Probably a dinner invitation.”

“Too bad we didn’t pack dress clothes.”

The rancher drew his finger across his throat.

“Sweet of him. Offering to slaughter a heifer, just for us.”

“A big juicy steak sounds pretty damn good, right about now.”

“Maybe next time.”

They waved and wheeled the horses around to continue the journey west. With each passing mile, the landscape grew drier and the population grew denser. The threat of fences was superseded by even more dangerous obstacles. Highways. There was no avoiding them. Their only hope was to sneak across after dark when traffic died down. On a good night they managed to cross three or four highways before nine-to-fivers hit the road at dawn. They dismounted to spare the horses’ hooves on the hard pavement.

The going was slow. Thanks to unrestricted urban sprawl, a hallmark of freedom in these here parts, once isolated desert roads were jammed with honking cars and SUVs. Living the dream, dontcha know. Commuter highways gave them plenty of practice before reaching the interstate running north to south through the Snake River Plain. They had to cross I-15 to get to the Sawtooths, a wilderness area that would protect them for a good thirty miles. It was the only road with a median, the only one crawling with state troopers. When they finally spotted the freeway in the distance, they stopped for a while to gauge the traffic flow and stake out the fuzz.

Troopers were notorious night owls. They killed their lights and sat in the dark, licking their chops. In Montana you could speed your way from one end of the state to the other during the day. The minute the sun set, you’d be pulled over and frisked. Idaho appeared to be even more of a police state. Instead of one trooper per twenty miles of highway, there were three with overlapping jurisdictions. Two were preoccupied with making money for the state, catching speeding drivers like suckers in a pond. Routine stuff. The third was far more judicious, ranging up and down the freeway looking for trouble. He obviously had bigger fish to fry.

“He’s a wily one,” Pete said.

“Takes one to know one,” Sinclair said.

They monitored the rover’s movements for several hours without discovering a pattern. All they knew for sure was that he passed by with alarming frequency. There must have been turnarounds every mile or two. Either that or he just plowed across the median at will. The only viable strategy was to cross the minute he whizzed by and hope for the best. They crept as close as possible to the freeway, leading Buck and Paco by the reins. Truckers were out in full force, especially at night. The horses danced every time a big rig rolled by. Then they saw him coming.

They knew it was the trooper because he drove way over the speed limit. Cars scooted into the right lane to make way for him. When his taillights rounded the bend, they made their move. It was clear sailing on their side of the median. They traversed the northerly lanes, calming the horses with rough endearments. Almost immediately, Pete managed to sprint the rest of the way with Buck in tow. But Paco balked twice before Sinclair could coax him across the southerly lanes. They jumped into the saddle the minute both of them cleared the pavement, spurring their horses for the second time during the journey west.

A wise-guy trucker blew his big-throated horn, spooking the horses again. Hunkering down in the saddle, they managed to channel panic into meteoric forward motion. Not a moment too soon. They heard the siren first, and then the desert sky started flashing. Tires skidded to a stop. A surprisingly high voice barely caught up with them.

“Halt, or I’ll shoot!”

Almost instantaneously a gun fired, this time a pistol. All of Idaho was trigger-happy. They assumed it was just another warning shot. They were committing a crime, no doubt about that. But state troopers were less likely to shoot them than crazy old ranchers. Badge or no badge, killing a young man for daring to ride a horse would make nasty headlines in the local newspaper. He’d post an all-points bulletin, for what it was worth, a warrant for the arrest of two latter-day cowboys on the run. Lucky for them, the days of mounted posses were long gone. By dawn they’d disappear into the mountains without a trace.

“We’re home free!”

For several strides they rode side by side, keeping pace. Sinclair looked over at Pete, hoping to catch his eye. He was startled by the exuberant expression on his face. Pete was obviously in his element. Sinclair, on the other hand, was conflicted. There was a part of him that revered authority as much as Pete disdained it. Following orders was an expression of his true character. At the time, all that registered was that a man in uniform was demanding he stop and surrender himself to custody. It was the right thing to do.

Pete’s elation stemmed from unencumbered liberty, not license. He knew damned good and well that what they were doing was technically illegal. Big whoop. Surely even Sinclair knew that breaking stupid laws was far less ignoble than obeying them. One way or the other, he must have underestimated the significance of the defining moment of the trip. Pete would have gone to hell in a handbag as long as Sinclair went with him. Loyalty was the one true measure of friendship. If abstract principles got in the way, they were bogus and inconsequential.

Sinclair let his horse’s pace slacken, taking refuge in passivity. That way he could blame Pete for what happened. A true friend would never expect him to compromise his principles. Pete swiveled in the saddle the second Sinclair left his side. They were in this thing together. The two boys beckoned one another with mirror gestures, one urging his buddy to hurry up, the other to give up. Sinclair would never forget the look on Pete’s face. He must have worn the same expression when he slid the shotgun into his mouth three months later. Defeat. Defeated trust, defeated dreams, generations of defeat too relentless to be housed in a single wounded heart.

That was pretty much the end of the story in more ways than one. Grandpa’s horse trailer pulled into the police parking lot late the following afternoon. He paid the fine and promised not to breathe a word to Sinclair’s father. Pete barely talked the whole long drive back home. The fact that they were driving east instead of riding west said everything. Talk about a fall from grace. If Sinclair had acknowledged what he had done wrong, Pete might have forgiven him. It wasn’t until he told the story to his buddies at boot camp that he finally found the courage to take responsibility for his betrayal.

“That’s some story,” Sergeant Troy said. He walked across the bunkhouse, weaving between beds to get to Sinclair’s.

“Yessir.”

“Where’s Pete now?”

“He’s dead.”

“How long ago?”

“A few months after our trip.”

Sergeant Troy put his hand on Sinclair’s shoulder. He had never touched any of them before. Most of the men were embarrassed by the gesture. Novices in blood brotherhood, they mistook the power of empathy for mere sentimentality.

“Let it go, son.”

“Yessir.”

“You’ll make a fine marine. But you’ve got to learn to let things go.”

He started to leave, and everyone jumped to their feet to salute.

“Sir!”

“At ease.”

Nobody knew what to say after Sergeant Troy left, so they said nothing. The entire bunkhouse simulated sleep, leaving Sinclair in the lurch. He was obviously on the verge of a meltdown, something they equated with weakness rather than catharsis. They had yet to witness Trapp weeping uncontrollably, cradling a dead comrade in his arms. Logan hadn’t kicked the dead bomber’s face to a bloody pulp, calling on God to damn his soul to hell. Nobody had shit his pants in abject terror, not yet anyway. They were still invested in the superficial trappings of machismo that seasoned marines, unencumbered by inhibitions, learned to consider trivial.

Two years later in Fallujah, they had enough combat experience to process raw emotion without the help of Sergeant Troy. They exorcised guilt and anger by scapegoating the enemy and exonerating themselves, one tale at a time. Nobody could top Vasquez’s epic encounter with the three bras, but that didn’t stop them from trying. Wolf told a story about the mosque attack. Percy entertained them with impersonations of Colonel Denning and Captain Phipps. Everybody was drowsy by the time they’d talked themselves out. Sinclair was already asleep. What was terrifying once upon a time had been successfully tamed into bedtime stories. The simple fact that they had lived to tell the tale made them all feel safe.

Radetzky roused them at 0500 hours. Tactical Operations had finally given the all clear in the wake of the bombardment. He split the platoon in two. Half were assigned to reconnaissance while the others resumed search-anddestroy missions. Sinclair finally broke down and popped a Provigil. Three hours of shut-eye had left him more groggy than none at all, and he was afraid of losing his edge when he needed it most. Traversing bombed-out terrain was especially dangerous in cities. Damaged ordnance was often buried in the rubble. What looked like a wasteland could actually be a minefield.

Puddles of white phosphorous still burned in streets and courtyards. They tucked their pants into their boots. If clothing caught fire, almost nothing could smother the flames. Certainly not water. Phosphorous ate traditional fire retardants for breakfast, let alone pant legs. They moved carefully but quickly, Wolf in the lead. Many of the compounds were still standing, burned-out shells of their former selves. The smell of burning flesh lingered in the air.

“Remember Othman?” Trapp asked.

“Yeah, why?”

“That was his house.”

Sinclair couldn’t believe he hadn’t recognized the place. He had earned a reputation for instinctively knowing where they were and where they needed to go. Back home, hunting had honed his sense of direction, something his buddies had learned to trust. During Operation Iraqi Freedom, he helped the platoon navigate hundreds of miles across the desert without once losing his bearings. Even Radetzky routinely consulted with him to confirm coordinates, especially when trying to avoid friendly fire. Either Trapp was wrong or something had seriously disoriented him. Fallujah was really kicking his ass.

Sinclair looked north and south along the main street fronting the house. There was still too much smoke from phosphorous fires to see more than a block or two in either direction. In the City of Mosques, they verified locations by identifying nearby minarets. If the ones in the vicinity were still standing, they were obscured in the haze. Sinclair followed Trapp, straddling a fallen column to get to the porch. There was Othman’s bicycle, covered with a thick layer of ash. It had fallen over but was otherwise unscathed. Bombs were funny that way. Here and there, random things were spared.

“Let’s just hope he got out in time.”

Neither of them said what they both knew. Othman never would have evacuated without his beloved bike.

“Good old Othman.”

It was hard to believe that just over a week ago Sinclair and Trapp had been walking the beat with Othman, a young Sunni fresh out of security training. In an effort to dispel the appearance of martial law, marines partnered with equal numbers of local police. Coalition forces patrolled the same neighborhoods every day to foster community support. They even got to know people by name, as long as tribal leaders hadn’t poisoned the well. In theory, peacekeeping initiatives were more likely to win the war than combat missions. Too bad the Eighty-Second Airborne Division hadn’t spearheaded more joint initiatives. The Marine Corps would have inherited a less antagonistic city.