The Good Lieutenant (11 page)

“You knew you were bringing the cameras out. So why didn't you bring the extra trucks in the first place?”

She knew Beale knew the answer to that. The answer was that neither Pulowski nor McKutcheon had given them an accurate report on how congested and unruly the intersection was going to be. “It's an unforeseen circumstance, Beale. Okay? But I'm not going to abandon protocol just because you're nervous, okay?”

“Yeah, well, imagine how you'd feel if you lost somebody just because Pulowski was too much of a pussy to go do his job.”

“It's not about Pulowski,” she said. “I don't want to send you in either. Or Waldorf. Or Crawford. Or anybody.”

“You deserve better than that.”

“What?”

Beale was an awkward soldier; he'd never touched her except out in the bean field, when she'd saved him from a fight. But now he grabbed the collar of her body armor and pulled her down into a squat, holding tight. “You laid out for me with Seacourt, didn't you? Huh? You lay out for me, I lay out for you. How would you feel if we got hit because you spent two hours waiting for backup, just because you wanted to protect Pulowski? He doesn't have your back, ma'am. Not like we do, anyway.”

She should have let it pass—ignored Beale, made the proper call. Instead what she saw, like the tiny picture she used to get when she turned her father's binoculars around and looked through them the wrong way, was the image of herself sitting in the recruiter's car, out front of her father's house in Junction City, Kansas, signing the papers. All she could see was that image and, along with it, a tight, high pressure in her chest, as if someone were stabbing her in the center of her breastbone with a piece of glass. It had been there ever since they'd left the gate that morning and it frightened her because she almost never felt this way outside the wire. She also had this feeling associated with it that felt like guilt, as if she had committed some grave sin—which was impossible, since she'd been waiting for eight months for her platoon sergeant to speak to her in this way. Maybe she felt guilty because the eighteen-year-old Fowler would've agreed with Beale. That Fowler had sat in that recruiter's car and signed those papers as a declaration of freedom from Harris, her life, that house. She had never intended to allow anybody to make her as vulnerable as she'd been then.

“You got a specific plan in mind, Sergeant?” she said, standing up and addressing him in a more formal voice, so the soldiers nearby could hear. “I got guys posting security, we need people setting the T-walls up—so if you want to do a sweep, you're gonna need people who aren't already doing something.”

“I'm not busy,” Beale said. He had a sly look on his face.

“Yeah, but you need a team. Can't go in solo.”

“What about camera boy here?” Beale said. “It's his shit, his equipment, his fucking project. We're good with these T-walls, ma'am. The only thing we're waiting on is for Pulowski to get off his ass and
do
something.”

She glanced up at Pulowski. If it had been anyone other than Pulowski, she would have shut Beale down immediately, played it safe. But then again, if it had been anybody other than Pulowski, she wouldn't have been put in the position of being humiliated in front of her entire team. All she wanted from Pulowski was a little backup: nothing fancy, no apology, no sympathy, just a decisive opinion, a suggestion, some admission that they were together in the mission, that they shared responsibility. It was no excuse, of course—if you were a good lieutenant, you weren't supposed to care about these things. But today she did.

Instead, Pulowski punched his hands down in his pockets and bit his upper lip, grinning at her and Beale as if they were the biggest idiots he'd ever seen. “Well, it seems like you guys ought to make the best tactical decision you can, don't you think?”

It wasn't even something he actually believed.

She pushed between the two of them, grabbed a water bottle off the Humvee's seat. It was a bad idea to make decisions out of anger, but now she did. “Beale's right,” she said. “Pack up your gear and get moving, Pulowski. I got a fucking platoon to take care of. You should've manned up an hour ago. Stop making us wait.”

“Roger,” Beale said.

“Grab Crawford to go with you,” she said. “But don't go inside. You can look, but we're not rushing any buildings with anything short of a full team, and I can't spare that many men. You got it? You understand me? That's a direct order.”

“Oh, yeah—I copy,” said Beale. He jerked his Kevlar down tight over his ears, fastening his chin strap. “That's a direct order. Nobody gets to hurt Pulowski. Come on, camera boy, let's beat it, please.”

*   *   *

The first shots were muffled and therefore hard to locate. They could have been far away. She dove in through her Humvee's door and scrambled for the portable radio that she kept under her seat. Once she got it and looked up, her platoon had begun firing at the market on the right-hand side of the intersection. It was empty, the bare metal pipes that defined the abandoned stalls knitting and unknitting like lace. And yet, once a single soldier aimed there, the entire platoon “unleashed” and these shadowy frames skidded and upended under the steady hose of rounds, sparks flaring and receding like lit match heads, a constant gloriole of sound and motion that was just confusing enough to be satisfying to shoot at. Just enough to give the illusion that a target was there.

Fowler saw all of this. But what she also saw was that every single one of her sentries—the Humvee crews that she'd posted at all four corners of the compass—had abandoned their appointed sectors and faced the firing. She tried to correct this, but when she flipped the portable radio on, the channel was overloaded, emitting only blips and burps,
Wrrock, SCREEJAARGH, Go! Go!
And then
Enemy at three o'clock
, and then
Fucking something moving, down in that market right there, see that hut, and then the fucker dropped into the canal, somebody shoot his ass …
until the feed dissolved into a high-pitched whine.

Okay, you've got to move. Where's the danger?
she thought, and slid out in a crouch from her Humvee with her sidearm in her hand.
Who's hit? Is anybody hit?
She didn't think so. She was already in a hurry then, telling herself to slow down and think, and fighting against that hurry. The medical building was up ahead and to the left—the opposite side of the street from the market. They'd set up T-walls across the road, so she could only see its upper story and the roof.
Nice thinking, Beale. Good place for shooters, Beale.

“The roof!” she shouted to her own gunner, McWilliams, whose .50-cal machine gun, pumping out rounds above her head, made it almost impossible to think.

“What?” McWilliams said.

Fowler stepped up onto the door frame of the Humvee, grabbed him by the shoulder, and pointed at the roof of the medical building. Then she dropped down onto the dirt and began running hard, tucking her chin, that way.

“All right, all right,” she was saying a few seconds later, as she crouched behind a newly installed T-wall, halfway to the medical building. The intersection was quiet. McWilliams had silenced the shooter on the roof and the horseshoe of Humvees circled around the intersection had quit firing at the marketplace. That was progress, at least. She peeked up over the T-wall and checked the roofline again: nothing.
Okay, what next?

“Okay, I need my perimeter security to do their jobs. Just stick to your own quadrants. Keep your eyes open. I'm going to call out sectors. South is toward the highway. Okay? South.”

“Clear,” Waldorf said.

“West.”

“Clear,” Dykstra said.

“North,” Fowler said. This was Jimenez, whose Humvee was on the other side of the T-wall, nearest to the alley where Beale and Pulowski had gone in.

“Are you clear?”

“Almost, Lieutenant,” Jimenez replied.

“What's that supposed to mean?” She tried to keep her voice steady during this, trying hard not to ask directly about Pulowski. She was supposed to be the platoon leader for all these people, not just him. But still, she felt a wave of relief when, after some rustling of the microphone, Pulowski's voice came on the air.

“Crawford and I are here. We were in this alley, and the team leader”—this meant Beale—“said we were under fire and he, uh, we got separated from him.” There was muffled whispering here, a mic covered with a hand.

“You say you last saw Beale in the alley.”

“Yes, ma'am.”

How the fuck did three guys get separated in an alley? Here's how three guys get separated in an alley: their lieutenant gets pissed off and sends them in.

She pushed out from behind the T-wall and ran hard to the medical building, got herself under the second floor walkway, pressed her back against the louvered steel door that covered the front window. She peeked around the corner. No Beale. A car with its windshield shot out. A big steel box that looked like a dumpster someone had made from scratch. Okay, what would be the most dangerous place for Beale to be? The answer was inside. By then a cancerous black tentacle of fear began to curl itself, glistening, around Fowler's wrist, sneaking up the cool wincing skin of her inner bicep, nesting inside her armpit: Beale had a headset radio with him too. Why wouldn't he be answering?

“All right, Eggleston,” she said. “Button up the Hercules and drive it right over to me. Punch a hole in this wall, then back up and head down the alley. They're not going to be able to hurt you, okay?”

It was a risk. Risky to send an armored vehicle into such a restricted space. But only if the alley had been mined, and she doubted that. Everybody knew that alleys were places where U.S. forces didn't drive. The AKs wouldn't touch the Hercules. An RPG might, but fuck it, if they had RPGs, they would've shot them already. By then the big vehicle had already crossed the open street, its treads clanking, chewing up the asphalt, Eggleston dropping the boom that he'd been using to lift the T-walls on the fly. “Do it soft,” she said. “Do it soft or you'll take the building down.” And Eggleston slowed and put the nose of the Hercules against the louvered steel door and she heard the diesel engine gun and the frame of the whole vehicle began to shake and the anchor for the metal screen tore away from the concrete overhead, and the whole sheet bowed, and there was an opening just big enough along one side that she put a boot up on the Hercules' fender and dove in.

It was dark inside. Glass on the ground. Shelves. A counter, the space behind it empty but in disarray, papers spilled out on the floor. Cardboard boxes of Band-Aids. Cotton balls. Q-tips. Amber glass bottles of medicine. Other supplies that she recognized by the colors of their brand, though the name itself had been transcribed into Arabic: the brown and gold of Bayer aspirin. Less stuff than you would've seen in an American store, the shelves flimsy and in places empty. The shooting had started only after Beale and Pulowski had gone off to inspect this same building. First the guy up on the roof, taking aim at her platoon—and maybe even someone firing from the empty market on the other side of the street. Then, after that had ended, a final, muffled series of shots. Something she heard without maybe even recognizing that she heard it. Probably from inside the building. What did that mean? It meant there had been people waiting for them in here. Not a random shooting. An organized attack. And the muffled shots at the end probably meant that, despite her orders, Beale had gone in.

By her judgment, the door she'd seen halfway down the alley had to be farther back in the building, past the wall behind the counter, probably into a stockroom, or an apartment in the building's back half. She was hurrying by then. Why hadn't she hurried sooner? Fowler had already been worried before she heard the shooting, as if it had been prefigured in her mind—or at least as if she'd already recognized her mistake, which was that she'd been right to be afraid and shouldn't have resisted the feeling. The only thing she'd been wrong about had been imagining that anything between her and Pulowski could be clean or hard or quick. The part of her that had imagined that it would be easy for her to cut someone off that way, send Pulowski in and forget him. Or Beale,
even if
it had been his idea. That was her flaw, to pull back, to get offended, to assume that the hurt would be coming, and so then push someone away. Claim that order called for it. Claim the rules told you that it had to be that way. There was a door at the far end of the counter, and she pressed her cheek against the floor and tried to see underneath it—nothing. The space wasn't wide enough.
You are slow. Imagine somebody dying because you took too long to get through a door. No one would know. But you'd know
. Her hands were shaking and she felt like a fool, walking into a firefight with nothing but her Beretta sidearm, and she reached out and swung the door in and then pivoted quickly around the door frame in a crouch.

The hallway was a wreck, torn and bunched-up carpet, pictures on the wall, a light at the far end. Rooms on the right and left. “Beale! Hey, it's me. You here?” It was a bad place, she could feel it. Nowhere to hide if someone took a shot at you in here, so she ducked into the first room that she passed. It was some kind of stockroom. Blood spatter and cardboard boxes in disarray, but no people—and the door out to the alley, she saw that. Beale could have come in there. She went back to the hallway, passed a staircase going up, sighted it, but nothing, and then she shouldered through a door, and she was in a bedroom and there were a man and girl sitting on the bed, shot, lifeless, small sprays of blood on the wall behind them and soaking into the bedspread, the girl's feet bare. In front of them, a woman knelt on a prayer mat, prostrate, with blood glistening in her black hair like oil. That was when she saw the kid, hiding underneath the bed. He was wearing a Spider-Man shirt and cutoff sweats and looked to be about fifteen. They stared at each other. Fowler had flattened her sidearm on the floor and she could hear her own breath coursing through her chest. The rest of the apartment—if that's what it was—was silent, uncomfortably so, as if whatever was happening to her had reached some new stage of development, which she had yet to comprehend. “I don't want to shoot you,” she said. “I don't want to fucking kill you, okay?” As soon as she said it, she knew that this was not the case. The kid must have figured that out too. They waited there together in that awful space until the kid's eyes flickered briefly to the dead woman on the prayer mat and he bolted from beneath the bed and Fowler jumped on him. She shouldn't shoot. “Stop!” she was shouting. “Stop! Get down!” She shouldn't shoot him, not up close. She'd never shot anybody, and she didn't know for sure what he had done, didn't know for sure that he was guilty. There was just his face, dark-eyed, frightened—or maybe just confused. And then Waldorf's voice in her ear, full-blast, like she'd become something dangerous,
Get off, LT! Get off, LT! He didn't fucking do it
, and when he pulled her off, she heard a wet rattling as the muzzle of her Beretta chipped the kid's teeth.