A Hard and Heavy Thing (15 page)

Gassner didn't reply. He stared at the dirty front window.

“Corporal Gassner. What do you want me to do?” Nick asked again, growing more frantic.

Once again, no response.

“Corporal Gassner,” Nick cried out.

“Dude. Shut the hell up,” Gassner yelled back. “Stop right here. Just stop. Hooper, get your ass back in the gun and stop northbound traffic. Everyone else, fives and twenty-fives.” Before Nick could bring the Humvee to a complete stop, Gassner opened his door and stepped out onto the hot asphalt, gun up, looking for a target. He scanned the area, ignoring his own advice to search the immediate five meters around the vehicle for additional hazards before moving on to the next twenty-five meters.

Because of Gassner's abrupt exit, Nick slammed on the brakes so his squad leader didn't go rolling across the highway, the result being that Hooper lurched into the front of the turret. “What the hell is wrong with you today, Anhalt?” Hooper yelled down.

PFC Brian Weber, the green replacement troop, dismounted and earnestly began his fives and twenty-fives. He said nothing, but simply got down to business. Nick made a mental note to get everyone to call Weber “The Mute.” He walked in concentric circles, kicking disturbed earth and discarded cigarette boxes to ensure nothing was lying in wait for them. Chances were good that a secondary IED was in the general vicinity, planted by a bomber waiting just for them or the explosive ordnance disposal troops who would set up to interrogate the blast site.

Jalaladin stayed in his seat. He clung to the handle on his door with both hands, and he squeezed so hard his brown knuckles turned ashy.

Nick put the Humvee in neutral and pulled up on the brake. He had to ram his shoulder into the door several times to force it open. Stepping out onto the asphalt was like stepping onto the surface of the sun itself—the surface of the sun with someone holding a hair dryer to his face. Before gaining his bearings or even looking for other hazards, he untucked his T-shirt and blouse and arched his back rearward, freeing the rock that had galled him all morning. It fell on the ground and he turned around to pick it up, allowing the muzzle of his M4 to clang against the road.

Upon standing, he felt dizzy, nauseous, and he nearly lost his balance. He staggered around his vehicle looking at the gravel shoulder. He tried to discern whether any of the dirt was recently disturbed. He looked south at all the vehicles stopped by Tom Hooper's menacing frame and intimidating .50 caliber fully automatic machine gun. He stumbled to the front of the Humvee, put one hand on the tire, and puked up wheat snack bread with jalapeño cheese spread and two sugar-free Rip It Energy Fuel drinks.

Nick looked back north where the remnants of the bomb's mushroom cloud hung in sky. The scorching air shimmered over the oily highway for an empty stretch a quarter-mile long. The other three vehicles in Archer platoon held the north side of the cordon, trapped on the other side of the blast site by nothing more than SOP—standard operating procedures, which said they couldn't cross the kill-zone of an IED until an EOD team had cleared the scene to ensure the absence of secondary IEDs or hazardous remnants.

Nick put his hand to his forehead to shield his eyes from the sun. Behind him, he heard Gassner get on the radio again, but nothing had changed; he still couldn't make contact with the rest of the platoon.

Nick held his rifle up and looked through his scope to get a better view. He saw a squad mount up. Their vehicle tore across the median into the northbound lane opposite the direction of travel. They hugged the western shoulder, trying to keep as much distance between themselves and the blast site as possible.

The vehicle pulled perpendicular to the road in front of the line of halted Iraqi cars. Their gunner added to Hooper's presence with his Mark 19 40-millimeter grenade launcher. The members of the squad dismounted the Humvee and dutifully performed their own fives and twenty-fives. Levi sat in the TC seat with one foot out the door on the pavement, the radio handset to his ear.

Nick placed himself between the vehicle's body and the blasted steel door. He rested his rifle over the hinges and looked out across his sector.

Levi walked up in front of him, whistling as he surveyed the damage. “Look at that. Barely a scratch. Black Cats, eh? I've seen worse on the Fourth of July back home.”

Nick managed a nervous chuckle.

Levi walked in front of Nick, and Nick lowered his rifle so he wouldn't flag him. Levi looked down at his energy drink and MRE breakfast splattered all over the road. He reached his hand to Nick's face and pulled his Oakley M Frame sunglasses down his nose so he could look at his friend's eyes. “You doing okay, buddy?”

Nick looked down, “Yeah, I'm fine.” His voice cracked and shook.

“Look at me,” Levi said.

Nick made eye contact and held it.

“You sure?” Levi said. “How do you feel? Amped? Nauseous? Vertiginous?”

“Vertiginous?”

“Like, are you dizzy? Bell rung too hard? Do we need to get you out of here? Call a MEDEVAC?”

Nick shook his head. “Nah, man. I'm good. It was just a rush, that's all.”

“You just miss it or what? Was it hidden? Hooper said it was on the surface and yelled for you to stop. How'd you miss it?”

Nick reached into his pocket, pulled out the nummular rock, and handed it over. Levi analyzed the rock and placed it in the small pouch fastened to his vest, just over his heart.

“But you're okay. And so,” Levi said, trailing off. He paused. He looked Nick up and down. “All right then.” He walked around the other side of the Humvee and yelled to Gassner. “LT is working on calling EOD. I told him to make sure they came up from the south so they don't hit the same traffic jam we did.”

Levi let his rifle hang in front of him, and he pulled out a pack of imitation Marlboro cigarettes. He shook one out and tossed it up to his own gunner. He walked around his Humvee passing out cigarettes to his men, stopping to light each one. He walked over to Victor One and tossed a fake Marb to Tom Hooper, who lit it by shining his contraband Iranian-imported, Chinese-manufactured green dazzler laser on the end of it.

He offered one to Gassner, but he refused. “Always a gas, eh Gassner?” Levi snickered. He passed out cigarettes to Jalaladin and Weber the Mute and finished by putting one in Nick's mouth. He lit it for him. “Better just settle in boys. We'll be here a minute, I'm sure.”

Nick pulled the cigarette from his lips, exhaled, and with shaking hands, put the filter back in his mouth. “Vertiginous,” he thought. “Vertiginous, vertiginous, vertiginous.”

Children and men stepped out of their vehicles and walked up to the front line of cars. Rusty Toyotas and Opels crossed the median and spread across all lanes and the shoulder. Cars pressed into the barley field to the west of MSR Tampa. Had a canal not blocked the east side, surely the cars would have spread in that direction as well. Within minutes, hundreds of men and cars lined the busy highway, every one of them an enemy. Every one of them otherworldly and less than human. Every one of them apt to key a radio in his pocket to turn an unprotected, dismounted American infantryman into nothing but a torso, bleeding out where his legs used to be.

Levi had to contact Lieutenant Michaels over the net because Gassner's comms got knocked out during the blast. Lieutenant Michaels had to contact the tactical operations center; the TOC, in turn, had to contact the bomb disposal team; the bomb disposal team had to get back to the TOC; the TOC had to get back to Lieutenant Michaels; and then the LT, of course, had to get on the horn to reach Levi, who was standing less than a half a mile away.

All Levi could gather from the LT was that the EOD team from O'Ryan was tending to a large vehicle-borne IED near the south gate of Logistical Supply Area Anaconda, a massive Army post on Balad Air Base inhabited by Army Fobbits and Air Force Chairmen. The post-blast investigation for a strike against Archer platoon, which caused no significant casualties, was of little import to the execs and operations officers at the TOC. It was barely a blip on the radar. When Levi suggested to Lieutenant Michaels that they Charlie Mike—continue mission and move on—he was told that securing the scene was critical so the EOD team could collect evidence from the blast crater before clearing the scene of any additional hazards. When Levi asked the LT why they couldn't get another EOD team from Anaconda, he was told their post-blast investigation was not a priority.

Private Weber knelt between the two Humvees and quietly finished the cigarette Levi had given him. When he finished it, he put his rifle across his knee and looked out upon his sector for nearly half an hour without so much as cracking his neck or brushing away a fly. After that first half-hour, he began looking over at Levi in ever-shorter intervals. The longer Levi bantered with the LT on the radio, the more often Weber looked over at him.

“What the hell are you looking at?” Levi shouted.

Weber said nothing but turned away, looking back at his sector.

“Didn't you know that's The Mute?” Nick called over. “Hasn't said a word since he got here.”

Weber looked back at Levi. Levi barked like a dog, and Weber turned back to his sector.

After a few more similar exchanges, Weber finally said what was on his mind. “Sergeant Hartwig,” he called, sounding almost afraid to speak. “Do you think I'll get my CIB for this?”

Levi looked across the top of the Humvee at him and went back to talking on the radio. “Archer One-Six, personnel Weber, a.k.a. The Mute, wants to know if he'll get his combat infantry badge for being in a victor when it passed by a few fireworks.” He listened to the headset pressed against his ear. “Roger, One-Six. I'll tell him.”

“What'd he say?” said Weber.

“He said he'll write you a CIB in return for sexual favors.”

“C'mon. Seriously. What'd he say, Sar'nt?”

“He said watch your damn sector and stop worrying about the chest candy.”

After another long while, Weber called out, “How long until EOD shows up?”

“They get here when they get here,” replied Levi.

“What's so important about a hole in the ground?”

“They need evidence. If they have evidence, they can tell us what bad guys to go catch. If we can kick down the right doors and kill the right bad guys, we can all stop the insurgency. Kill the bomb maker and you'll have no more bombs, but if you kill the guy who plants the bomb, all you have is another dead farmer. That's what's so important about a hole in the ground.”

“Well is some scattered dirt really going to bring down the network? Aren't we just as likely to get hit just sitting here?”

“Who knows? They have to clear the blast site of additional hazards.”

“Does lightning really strike twice?”

Levi looked across the Humvee at him, mouth taut. “You sure have a lot of dangerous questions for a noob.”

Weber shut his mouth for a solid five minutes before shouting out, “What are we
doing
here, man?”

Levi pulled down his Oakley sunglasses and raised an eyebrow at Weber. “Since when did you find a voice?” He pushed his glasses back up. “I don't know why we're all here.” Levi spread his arm out and gestured to the rest of the guys. “But I know why you're here. Would you like to hear a story that will explain why Private Weber is here?”

“Sure,” Weber muttered.

“We used to have this guy in the platoon. Name was Private Ferguson. An excellent soldier. He kept his mouth shut. Didn't ask dumb questions, and he could shoot a farmer digging a hole in a road from 400 meters using just his iron sights.” Levi crossed his arms and rested them on his rifle butt. He looked up into the sky, as if remembering better times. “Now Private Ferguson thrived on combat. Absolutely loved it. He would have loved today. Nothing would have made him happier than getting hit by that IED.” Levi shook his head. “But he couldn't take the winter, man. Couldn't take the lull in the action. No outlet for the aggression bred in him by your United States Army. His anger manifested itself in increasingly self-destructive ways. It started with little things, like fist fights with guys who wouldn't trade him their jalapeño cheese and wheat snack bread for his peanut butter and cracker. It escalated into death threats against his TC, and to make matters worse, he started taking trips to the fence line to score needles. He literally lost his mind. Completely forgot who he was. And then one day?” Levi snapped his fingers. “Done. It was all over. No more trips to the fence, no more needles, no more nothing.”

“So what'd he do?” Weber asked. “OD? Kill himself?”

“Worse,” said Levi. He pulled out his box of cigarettes. He took his time taking one from the box and lighting it.

“So what'd he do then, Sergeant Hartwig?” said Weber, growing annoyed.

Levi blew out a stream of smoke. “Carpal tunnel got him.”

“Carpal tunnel? What?”

Levi blew out a stream of smoke. “He took up knitting.”

“Knitting?”

“You deaf? I said knitting.”

Levi heard Nick snort. He looked over and nodded at him. Nick shook his head.

“At first,” Levi said. “He tried cross-stitching. Old Ferg's the one who did up that really ornate looking genie lamp hanging in the TOC.” Levi turned. “Hey Nick, that genie lamp still hanging in the TOC?”

Nick nodded gravely. “Sure is.”

Levi continued. “But that didn't work. Too mindless is what he said. So he took up knitting. He cut his teeth by making these little—I dunno, I guess you could call them nesting dolls. You know, like, a knitted bunny rabbit with a pouch, and a bunch of tiny knitted bunny rabbits to go in the pouch so you could pull all the tiny knitted bunnies out of the pouch and make it look like the bigger bunny rabbit gave birth to all the little ones.”