The Severance (21 page)

“Because I told him to,” McBride said, looking up at the sky, as if he expected it to fall on him.

Jake resisted the urge to pick up a brick and hit McBride with it.

“Sir, your plan involved us moving The Severance to another container and that was the last thing we needed to do. I thought I had everything under control with Olsen and we just needed to get you off the idea of moving The Severance around. So I had Nelson flashbang us, hoping that you would think that it was Jessica—”

“And then you punched me in the face,” Jake interjected.

“That was an accident.”

“You knew about the flashbang, and you knew it was coming. Why would you throw random punches, if you were prepared to be flashbanged?”

“Well maybe it wasn’t an accident, but I didn’t mean to hit you that hard,” McBride said.

Jake gently touched the tender swollen skin around his eye. “Just so you know, I’m going to hit you in the face with a sock full of washers at my earliest convenience.”

“I probably deserve that. I turned Olsen onto The Severance. He came after you because of me. I didn’t want you to know that I’d messed up.”

“You let me think that Jessica was trying to kill me.”

“Yes, Sir. But Lopez really thought he saw her at the talent show. It was a fortunate coincidence and we used it to solidify the story.”

“‘Fortunate coincidence’? Are you kidding me?” Jake growled.

An eternity passed as Jake leaned against the fence, breathing in and out slowly. He didn’t know if he felt worse about having an undercover cop in his platoon for over a year or that McBride had betrayed him so badly. Jake was more saddened than enraged by McBride’s deception. Up until that moment, McBride had never let him down. Then, when it counted most, he’d screwed him over.

Jake looked at the morning sky, full of perfect white clouds concealing the sun. A cloud shifted, casting a flood of light that stung his eyes as painfully as McBride’s double-cross. The sting of sunlight was sure to fade, but betrayal hurt forever.

“Sir, maybe we should go turn ourselves in. If we work out our story, we can keep from implicating the rest of the boys,” McBride said.

Jake still said nothing. He had no intention of turning himself in. Jake Roberts hated losing. Furthermore, he did not plan to take McBride’s advice ever again.

“Sir, we might not have much time. Do you hear me?”

“I heard you,” Jake said hoarsely. “
We
aren’t going to do anything.
I’m
going to find Olsen, or whatever he’s calling himself, and stop him.” He pushed himself off the fence.

“I don’t see how you’re going to stop him. We’ll be in cuffs by the end of the day, I imagine. We’re fucked.”

“We’re not fucked, not completely anyway. Everyone in this scenario is a scumbag, badge or no badge. If Olsen was the one that tried to run me down with that truck and if he wrote that intimidation note, then C.I.D. or not, he’s just what I thought he was—a rat. He’s a rat who’s going after The Severance for himself. If C.I.D. command was onto us, we’d already be doing hard time in Kuwait. I doubt he’s working for anyone but himself. Coloring outside the lines,” Jake said, cracking his back. He began walking down Disney Road, leaving McBride leaning against the fence.

“Where are you going?” McBride asked, falling in beside Jake.

“To the container yard. That’s where Olsen is headed.”

“Sir, he’s C.I.D. You can’t put a finger on him.”

“We’ll see about that,” Jake said, quickening his pace.

“Okay, well let’s grab some of the guys and go down there.”

Jake stopped suddenly. Spinning around, he poked his right index finger in McBride’s face.

“You have done quite enough. Go back to the tent and assemble the platoon. No one leaves until I get back.”

“But, Sir—”

“Let me be absolutely clear on this. You have screwed The Severance, the platoon, and especially me. You created this problem, but I am going to solve it. I am going to the container yard to find Olsen and I will deal with him myself, alone. Get it?”

Jake turned and left McBride standing there, shoulders slumped, looking as defeated as a whipped dog. I’ll deal with him later, Jake thought.

It didn’t take long to get to the container yard. Jake noticed that despite what McBride had told him, there was no security posted on the front entrance to the yard. The front gate wasn’t even closed. McBride had lied to dissuade him from trying to move The Severance. And by operating solely on the information he’d gotten from McBride, he might be walking into a trap. With containers stacked three high, forming a winding maze of corrugated steel, there was no better place for an ambush. He decided to proceed anyway, and best any complication through force of will. The thought of McBride’s deception caused stinging pains in Jake’s chest. Shaking his head, he resolved to convert anguish into rage.

“Fucking liar,” Jake muttered, casually crossing Disney Road and entering the yard. Rounding corner after corner and walking the empty corridors, he began to feel frustrated, as there was no sign of Olsen or anyone else. Finally, after several minutes, he came on Olsen nonchalantly strolling away from him with a set of oversized, red bolt cutters slung over his shoulder.

Walters! Jake called out. Chief Warrant Office Four Walters turned and merely smiled.

“Oh good! I’ve been looking for a certain container for a while. You can help me find it,” Walters said. Jake walked toward Walters, noticing the loaded M4 rifle slung across his chest. His own was secured back in the tent.

“To be honest, I don’t have a clue where it is, but I don’t suppose I’d help you find it if I did.”

Walters shrugged his shoulders and nodded his head knowingly. Jake had closed the distance between the two men to about 10 feet before stopping and putting his hands in his pockets, taking an unceremonious stance. In reply, Walters set the bolt cutters down next to him and placed his hands on the rifle resting on his burly chest. Jake tried to keep his demeanor calm and cool.

“So you’re really C.I.D. Undercover?” Jake asked.

“You dug around in my running shoes, huh?”

“McBride did. Frankly, I’m shocked that anything he says is true, actually.”

“Imagine that. You doubting your boyfriend. But, yes, I’m C.I.D.”

“You’ve been in the platoon for over a year.”

“Yeah. When the word came through official channels that your battalion commander had cooked up the idea of taking all his bad eggs and putting them in one basket, my bosses decided to insert me into the mix.”

“So you could keep an eye on us?”

“Exactly. It was no-brainer on our end, Captain. That many bad guys in one platoon was a recipe for disaster. Though I’ve got to admit, it has been a little disappointing.”

“Disappointing?” Jake said, rocking back onto his heels. He hoped he was doing a good job of appearing unhurried and unsurprised, when his emotions were flaring.

“Oh yeah, it was really boring. For a platoon full of junkies, drunks, brawlers, insubordinates, and crooks, this smuggling stunt is the only thing worth talking about. I guess you should be commended for that.”

“I just got lucky.”

“Captain Roberts, you’re too modest. You ran your platoon like a well-oiled machine. You kept that addict Ramirez from using, McBride from drinking, and the rest of them from burning the base down. Really impressive, especially considering that you’re the baddest apple in the barrel,” Walters said.

Jake’s smile vanished from his face and was replaced by a scowl.

Walters laughed. To Jake it sounded like the call of a hyena. “You really think that I don’t know about you? You were the one who really worried everyone. Going psychotic and killing a civilian doesn’t just disappear, no matter how much money your father throws at it,” Walters said.

Jake clenched his jaw, trying to quell the dangerous thoughts that had been locked away for years. “Tread lightly,” he said, just above a whisper.

“You know, I’ve always wanted to know what it’s like to execute a detainee. I only read the file and saw the pictures, but boy; you really did a number on that guy. Close range with a handgun, nasty shit, huh?”

Jake glared at Walters in contempt. It took everything in him not to charge the man who stood before him. An appalling excuse of a man.

Jake didn’t want to talk about the past. He didn’t want to talk about anything with Walters, but he couldn’t cast off his thoughts. In about ten seconds, he was going to lose it.

The one time Jake completely lost control had been about three years earlier in the basement of an abandoned Baghdad house.

“Where is it?” Jake had shouted, pushing Mohammed Jassim Ali Al-Dulaim out of his chair and onto the floor. The Iraqi glared back at the young officer with contemptuous, hate-filled eyes. He stank of sweat and grime and his dishdasha shirt hadn’t been washed in days.

“Where’s the IED?”

No response. They’d been in the dungeon-like basement for over an hour. Only a dim light emitted from the single low-wattage bulb hanging from the ceiling.

“You better stop playing dumb, motherfucker!” Jake shouted, but the captured insurgent would not break his silence.

“He’s playing with you, Lieutenant,” commented Sergeant First Class Anthony Rawls from the corner. The crusty old NCO got a kick out of pushing his platoon leader’s buttons. The tactic was working. Jake felt beads of sweat form on his brow. Would Amy be proud of me now? he asked himself. No matter, I need to be iron willed.

“I wouldn’t let him do that to me, Sir,” Sergeant Zeke said. Zeke got a kick from people getting knocked around, enemy or civilian, even more so if he was doing the knocking.

Private First Class Jesse Scott beamed with delight, but said nothing. Unlike the other lower ranking members of the platoon, Scott had weaseled his way into the room under the pretext of pulling security on the prisoner.

“Shut up,” Jake shouted in the two NCOs’ direction as he paced around the small room. An hour earlier, they’d caught Ali emplacing a 152-mm artillery shell rigged with a cell phone detonator in Al Dora. Much to everyone’s surprise, the Iraqi spoke near-fluent English. Initially, Ali had been loquacious, mocking Jake and his men as they questioned him. It was almost entertaining to hear American-style profanities spitting out of an Iraqi’s mouth. However, when the Iraqi let slip that the IED they’d caught him laying was only one of the two he’d built for the evening, they’d searched him. The Iraqi didn’t have the trigger on him. He’d obviously handed it off to someone else.

Jake had called back to Battalion Headquarters and was ordered to conduct “tactical field questioning” and ascertain the location of the second explosive device. There had never been a set definition of tactical field questioning, let alone any guidelines for how it should be done. The closest thing Jake had to interrogation training was what he’d seen on television crime shows, lots of shouting with threats of imprisonment. None of that was working. There was a bomb out there, and if Jake didn’t find it there was a good chance that it would kill an entire patrol. Jake was not about to let even one soldier die because some scum-sucking insurgent tried to play tough.

“I want that goddamned bomb!” Jake screamed, delivering a kick to the insurgent’s belly. The Iraqi whimpered in pain, but otherwise said nothing.

“Now we’re getting somewhere!” Rawls shouted in approval.

“Atta boy, Sir,” Zeke said.

Scott said nothing, but his fixed grin was that of a psychopath. With a mighty effort Jake was able to turn his rage at the PFC onto the terrorist.

“Where the fuck is that other bomb?” Jake shouted, kicking the Iraqi’s midsection three times. The other Americans in the room whooped and hollered in satisfaction. Jake couldn’t explain the rage that was overflowing inside him, but at that exact moment he hated the whole world and everything in it. He hated Rawls, and Zeke, and Scott, but most of all he hated Mohammed Jassim Ali Al-Dulaim. He knew something awful was about to happen, but he no longer had control of his actions.

“Need me to take over?” Zeke asked.

“Shut the fuck up.” Jake wheezed.

“I-I remember you,” Ali said softly. A small trickle of blood appeared from his mouth.

“What? What did you say?” Jake asked. He knelt over the Iraqi. It looked as if he were trying to help the man.

“I said, I r-remember y-you,” Ali said weakly. As if he now knew he had gained the upper hand, he spat out his next words. “You were running around your truck with that idiotic look on your f-face,”

“What truck? Where? What are you talking about?” Jake asked, any vestige of sanity slowly ebbing.

“I didn’t think that bomb had been effective until I saw you stumbling around covered in that black soldier’s blood. I l-laughed.”

“Holy shit! Is this the guy that killed Williams?” Rawls exclaimed.

“Unreal,” Zeke said, spitting out his cigarette. PFC Scott maintained his silent smile. Ali began to speak again.

“I will nev—” His words were cut short. Jake shoved the muzzle of his M-9 pistol in Ali’s mouth, rammed the pistol to the back of his throat and angled it up toward the roof of his mouth. Mohammed Jassim Ali Al-Dulaim managed to look terrorized at the same time he uttered a distorted, “Allahu Akbar.”