Caravan of Thieves (26 page)

“What’re you, some kind of MP? You got nothing on us.”

“We have video, we have recordings, we have the evidence.” Junior was not half as scared as I wanted him to be, though the lieutenant was trembling.

I called Major Jenkins and explained that he had twenty
minutes to deliver the CID. “If I sense any threat to me, these guys die immediately, then I’ll go after the rest. You come last.” Jenkins started to babble about how they should have been there before, how he had set it all up. I hung up on him.

CID arrived in ten minutes. I was dressed as an Afghan and was aiming a rifle at Americans. Junior said, “We’ve been tracking him for weeks. He’s a traitor. Arrest him.”

They told me to put the weapon down and I did, and before they could arrest me I jumped on Junior and started beating him, figuring that would be my only chance. I got hit pretty hard by the CID, but it was worth it. “He was selling guns to Taliban,” I yelled as they carted me away. I heard Junior say, “He killed a Marine captain.”

Major Jenkins got me released immediately, though I was restricted to Kabul. I shaved and put on my uniform, but I could not blend in. I spent endless hours being interrogated.

“Why did you target these two officers? Who told you to request those particular weapons? What happened between you and Captain Ballard?”

“Nothing.”

“He’s dead. You were the last person to speak with him. The last American. Captain Remington did not know Captain Ballard. They have no connection. We checked.”

“Junior fingered him. He recognized him.”

“Captain Remington did not know Captain Ballard. You are the only person who knew that Captain Ballard was posing as an Afghan. You are the only person who could have killed him for that reason.”

“I had no reason to kill him.”

At last they brought in the expert, the major with the psychology degree. “When you prayed as a Muslim, what did you think about? What did you wish for?”

“A new bicycle.”

“I don’t believe you.” He stared at me. “What are you hiding? Maybe you prayed for a sniper rifle. You’re a good marksman. High scores. But you’re not a sniper. Do you resent the Marines for not making you a sniper?”

“No.”

“What do you resent the Marines for?”

“I don’t resent the Marines.”

“Then why did you embarrass them?”

Suddenly, the interrogations ended. Major Jenkins came around to visit and bring news. We took a stroll past the presidential palace. Two Army specialists followed us.

“You’re going to join a Marine outpost in Nuristan Province,” said Jenkins.

“Why is that bad news?”

“They’ve been released. No charges. The story will be that they were on an intelligence mission, too secret for any details to get in the way. They’re being transferred. Captain Remington is going home. I don’t know about Nance, but it won’t be anywhere as dangerous as where you’re going.”

“Junior’s father intervened?” We had to stop because a motorcade pulled up in front of the palace. No one got out. We turned and walked back. The followers moved across the boulevard. It would have been easy to lose them, but I could not think of a reason to do it.

“No one tells me. The talk isn’t going your way.”

“Do they believe I killed Captain Ballard?”

“Not at the moment. But the idea will live on. I’m being sent home.”

“Congratulations.”

“Not in order. Here I run intelligence operations. I deal with men like you and Captain Ballard. There I order fourteen-year-old boys to tie their shoelaces and watch them fondle their zits. You did the right thing and you did it well, but…be careful, Lieutenant.”

We shook hands. He crossed the boulevard, right toward the followers. They moved aside to let him pass.

T
he outpost was a line in the sand. As I stood in the trench along the perimeter, I would contemplate whether the line came first: Draw a line, then pick a fight over it; or the fight came first then the line was drawn to give some structure to the fight. We could not have been more accommodating to the enemy if we drew a target. Captain Overton was in charge. He was tired, scared, and endlessly responsible. Only thirty years old, he looked forty-five. Every death killed him a little bit more, but he followed orders, bombarding the enemy with our howitzers, sending out patrols to the clusters of buildings that constituted villages, and seeking out engagement with the enemy. In the few weeks I was at the outpost, I never saw him rest, never saw him give anyone short shrift, never saw him curse out a lying villager. Some of the men understood their commander was a hero; the rest would figure it out someday.

The worst beef the men had with Captain Overton was about me. The story of me stealing arms and wrecking the careers of two brave Marines had beaten me to that hillside. I was shunned. That
was fine. I was eager for the clarity of combat after weeks of intrigue. Camaraderie was not essential. One tough guy handed me a jammed rifle while we were in the trench. I jammed the butt into his groin, which ended that kind of behavior.

Captain Overton asked me if I wanted to address the men. I declined. He said, “It might help.” Then I knew he was a true believer in futile gestures, which is what made him the perfect man for the job. It began to dawn on a few of the men that believing I was there as punishment meant it was a place of punishment and since they were there, too…It did not make them change their minds about me, but doubt crept in. A sergeant sat down next to me with his dinner and said, “So, what did you do to deserve this, Lieutenant?”

“I requested it,” I said. He couldn’t curse me out so he walked away.

So many opportunities to kill me by accident passed by that I stopped trying to guess when the mistake would happen. An Afghan National Army sergeant and I were working our way up the back side of a steep hill to get an angle on enemy fighters who were bombarding our patrol as it passed through the valley. Our 120 millimeter mortars were set up on the opposite hillside, but they were having little effect. The sergeant and I moved into position almost level with the enemy, only fifty yards from them, and the trap fell quickly. By the time I spun around, the crossfire was thick. The first mortar hit near us and I was thrown about five feet. My helmet blew away and my radio was crushed. Somehow I held on to my weapon, but it only accentuated the futility of my situation. Instantly, the enemy spotted us and turned their fire our way. I crawled to a spot between two large rocks. One faced the enemy,
one faced the Marines, like bookends. The mortars kept coming from the opposing hillside and then they started coming from down below, too. All of it directed at us. Except there was no us anymore. The ANA sergeant was on his back, eyes open. He wasn’t bleeding, but it wouldn’t have mattered if he were: he would not need the blood anymore.

The enemy slowed down their firing after a few minutes. They didn’t have ammunition to waste and must have noticed they weren’t being fired on. I turned my back to the Marines so I couldn’t see the fire coming in. The mortars and tracers continued and all the fire was friendly. And relentless. I had nowhere to run, nowhere to hide. No one to fire at. No thinking to do. No tricks to play.

I’m often scared. I assume everyone is. It would be inaccurate to say I like it. I don’t crave the rush the way some people do. But I do seek fear, test it, tease it. Stuck there between the rocks, something else happened, something I wish I had never experienced. When I’m afraid, I can try to be smart. I can be aggressive or unpredictable. Even reckless or defiant. I can try things that push the fear away, make it secondary.

None of that was possible on that hill with the shells and bullets falling like lethal raindrops, marking a mysterious pattern too quick and dense to comprehend. The betrayal that launched the onslaught wasn’t important because it was only the fulfillment of my expectation. This was far worse. I lost hope, so nothing was left to hold my veneer in place. My guts burned with a concoction of helplessness, fear, and rage. The sky was a giant mirror: all I saw was myself, stripped. And it was no consolation that I was the only one seeing it. I had always held a disdain for hope and the people who clung to it. Hope is what Dan used against them, slathering on
the false kind, and since no one could tell that from the real thing, therefore it must all be false, I thought. But I learned that hope had one important purpose: it protects us from hell.

There was no decision, none that I am aware of. I was standing, facing the fire, back to the enemy. I remember my hands being clenched. Shells burst around me, though it couldn’t have been too many. I walked down the hill, steadily, slowly, oblivious to the shells. The firing stopped. None came from behind me. The enemy must have slipped away. I didn’t turn to check on them. If this was bravery, I never want to be brave again. It felt more like surrender.

Captain Overton said, “I’ll find out who gave the wrong coordinates. I’ll find out how it happened. I think it went on so long because they didn’t know. They genuinely thought they were shelling the enemy position.”

“How long did it go on?” We were in a corner of the trench where we thought we could have an absolutely private conversation.

“Forty minutes.” He looked away.

“It doesn’t matter,” I said. “It doesn’t matter who said what or who got fooled or who wanted to be fooled. Someone else is behind it. Everyone has to follow orders.”

“No one ordered that you be murdered.”

“There’s all kinds of orders. We know who is behind this. Don’t blame the grunts.” My thoughts turned to revenge and General Remington. Maybe I should have been thankful to him for the knowledge gained, but I wasn’t.

“The supply helicopters are coming in at oh nine hundred hours. You’re going out with them. I can’t protect you.”

“I can protect myself. Please let me stay.”

He was a good man and I knew I was pushing him to a place he did not want to go. He nodded and walked away. But three hours later he called me in.

“You’re going home.”

“I thought, sir…”

“New orders came through. Seems you’re the subject of an inquiry. There was a questionable death. A Captain Ballard.”

I didn’t know I would see General Remington at Camp Pendleton. It’s odd that we didn’t embrace, because he must have been happy to see me there, within his clutches, and I was even happier to see him. He was a big-deal general, but he looked out of place. Smart, dumb, selfish, vain, proud, lazy, foolish, cruel, timid, or bold, you could find every trait and more in any company, even most platoons. Marines might hate one another, screw each other’s daughters or wives, hate someone’s race or religion or who someone liked to go to bed with, but we all shared one trait: we all fought the enemy, all put ourselves aside when facing the enemy. But not Remington and not Junior. They were fighting their own war in their own corps. The general was another kind of enemy. He had to be defeated. Junior, too.

A
t last the exaggerated, loud whisper from a woman, “Up here,” woke me. I jumped up and grabbed my rifle. When Jessica saw me, she started to scramble down the hillside, but she stopped when I told her to.

Shaw was on his way up, moving casually, as always. He looked like a golfer strolling over to get a better view of the pin position. “Hey, Rollie.”

“Stop there.” He stopped and raised his hands about shoulder height. Jessica was between us.

“Thanks for not killing Jessica,” he said. “And congratulations. You got what you wanted. Found the money and killed McColl and his gang. Not what I wanted, but good work. What do you plan now?”

“I’ll give you the money. No tricks, if you’ll tell me who is involved. I want to know how far the conspiracy goes.”

“It’s a federal investigation. I can’t reveal that information.”

“Okay. No money. You can leave now.”

“Not that simple, Rollie. Now that we have proof you have the money, we’ll go to court. You’ll go to jail until you produce it.”

“I’m a Marine. They’ll have me. Not you.”

“You don’t want that.”

I screamed: “‘You don’t want that. You don’t want that.’ Why? Who’s involved? I can get him. He’ll want me. I’m the bait. He’ll believe I’m coming after him. Let me do it. I can bust him.”

“Who are we talking about, pal?” Shaw said. His voice was low and cautious, as if a mistake would ruin everything.

“You know damn well. Remington. General Remington.” I wish I could say I was faking the anger for show or to trick Shaw, but it was real and I did not like it.

Dan said, “
Calm down.
”

Shaw said, “Put the rifle down and we’ll talk about this.” Which meant the same thing. I wasn’t going to shoot him, so I put the rifle down.

“Let’s get out of here before dark,” I said.

I wanted to fly, but Shaw reminded me that the choppers were easily traceable.

“By whom?”

“You’ve already decided.”

We ate in Tucson at a diner on Speedway. There was no use rushing up to Arrowhead; the bakery would be closed by the time we got there. Shaw relaxed next to Jessica in the booth. He ordered coffee, but he should have had a martini. He had the posture and manner of a crooner. Jessica ordered a steak and I asked for a burger.