Warlord: Dervish (4 page)

There were big differences between here and back home. There was no way to compare sitting behind a gas-operated machine gun to sitting in a faculty meeting. There was no common ground listening to the whistle of incoming mortar rounds versus listening to the pledge of allegiance over the PA, between patrolling hostile streets—waiting for a burst of AK fire or the white smoke trailing a rocket—and walking down a polished hallway, Squibs grade book under your arm.

Rudy had been in the Humvee ahead of Jason’s when the IED went off. After the initial cloud of dust had roiled past, Jason had taken a look at what was left of the Humvee, and he started looking for the kid’s good luck charm.

Other people were looking for arms and legs.

Christ, what’s wrong with me?
Jason shook his head and rubbed his temples with his gloved index fingers. Yeah, he wasn’t eating like he used to. And his bowel movements were infrequent and uncertain, solid one time, liquid the next. He knew all about the Iraqi ass piss. Nineteen months in this sandbox would do that to you.

But it wasn’t anything physical getting to him.

It had to be mental. The suck was enveloping him. This place was getting to him. These people…the hard looks on the young men’s faces. The way the women wouldn’t look at them. The Gift blowing snot out of his nose with his finger on his nostril. The kid all over the road like that last week…

More and more, Jason found himself retreating inside himself. Thinking of things past, things sacred, things that didn’t deserve to be thought about out here in this godforsaken desert. Playing in the snow with his friends when he was nine years old. Uncle Ritchie and his mom. Aspen and the girls.

“I hate this dust,” Tucker snarled. “Black man ain’t supposed to deal wit’ dis shit.”

Big Meech nodded.

“See, even Meech know what a nigger talkin’ ‘bout. Everywhere this man’s army has sent my black ass—
dust
! Springtime in Yongson? Nigga’ up five in the mornin’—everythin’ covered in yella’ dust. Goddamn Mongolian sand, fuckin’ yella’ wind…”

Jason tuned Tucker out as the other man launched into his harangue about the sand in Korea. He’d heard it before. They all had.

He looked down upon the dirty, sand swept street and felt grimy. The end of each day wound up with him back in Choo-ville, filthy, sand-encrusted, streaks of dirt on his face where the sweat had streaked a path.

The sand was everywhere, in everything.

When you breathed, you inhaled it. It stung your eyes. On the days when the dust and winds were real heavy, Jason figured the guys back in Virginia weren’t seeing much more than static from their precious aerostat.

He considered the sand coating the Hescos and the M240B. The first time he’d seen a sand storm he’d stared at it, open mouthed. It hung over the city, a draped blanket, sweeping everything under in its path. The way it started, a gust of wind would come through. Individual grains of sand, almost too small for the eye to see, started to vibrate. Some would jump up, and when they landed, they’d loose more particles of dust and sand. Granular material would start popping off the ground and travel in suspension and before you knew it, you’d have a billowing cloud bearing down on you.

It’s been awhile, Jason thought, since they’d had a sand storm. He studied the grime on the back of his gloved hand. Which particle would start it? Which grain of sand would start to thrum and then leap up, setting in motion something that couldn’t be stopped, something that just had to be allowed to run its course?

There was never any way to tell.

“…yeah, ya feel me? Let me tell you, Meech, ain’t nothin’ like dem bitches in Itaewon. Hey, Espada.”

“What’s that?”

“You know what Confucius say?”

“What’s that, Tucker?”

“Confucius say…” Tucker assumed a horrible Chinese accent “…man with penis in peanut butter jar be fuckin’ nuts.”

“‘
Be’
fuckin nuts, huh?” Espada sounded amused despite the heat. “That what Confucius would have said?”

“Nah,” said the Gift. “Confucius say—let me tell you what Confucius say—Confucius say, man with hole in pocket feel cocky all day. Like Tuck.”

“‘aight, Giff. Why’nt you come over here and put jo hand in my pocket, see what dere?”

Espada was laughing and Meech started laughing too.

“That nigger ain’t funny.” Tucker berated them. He turned to Meech. “What chew laughin’ at? You even understan’ what he say? Here, listen this…” Tucker addressed Espada “…Confucius say, Kotex not best thing in the world, but next to best thing.”

“You’re
wrong
, Tucker,” Mook exhaled. “You just ain’t right.”

Jason looked up from the back of his gloved hand to the road.

“Heads up.”

A white, compact car had pulled to a stop ahead, beyond the Jersey barriers. The car looked like it had been dipped in the mud and dust. Its chasis hung low to the ground.

“Ah, shit,” Tucker raised his M-4. “Shit about to get real…”

“Gift, Meech.” Mook nodded his head towards the car.

“Got it.” The Gift started ahead, the barrel of his rifle level at his waist, their interpreter next to him. Tucker yelled out, “Giff, don’t go getting’ yo’ ass blown up.”

Jason shifted his shoulder, snug against the stock of the M-240B, watching the car.

“Jay, you get ready to light they raghead asses up.”

“Tucker,” Mook warned, “Shut up.”

The Gift and Meech had covered half of the space between their barrier and the car, which continued to idle.

“I can’t see shit,” noted Espada. The sun was behind them, glinting off the windshield of the vehicle. Even with their sunglasses it was impossible to make out the interior of the car.

The sand around Jason was calm.

The day the kid checked out, the road had been still too. Like this. The snow had stopped falling. He was nine years old.

The Gift and Meech were past the Jersey barriers now. The Gift was calling out to the car, holding one hand up, Meech translating.

Uncle Ritchie stood with his hands on his hips, looking down at him in the snow. Jason was riding in the back of the Humvee, behind the driver. Tucker was up on the fifty, his legs next to Jason’s head. The kid was in the vehicle ahead of theirs.

A white-sleeved arm was sticking out of the driver’s window of the white car, gesturing as the person inside spoke with Meech and The Gift.

The Humvee in front was passing a pile of scrap when the IED blew. The flash—the heat—the smoke. Jason’s Humvee shook. Yeah, Aspen wouldn’t recognize him anymore.

The Gift held up a hand with one finger extended, like he was saying give me a minute. He turned away from Meech and the car and started walking back towards the barrier.

Tucker had sent a stream of fire into the fields, looking for a target, but there were no targets. No one was firing on them.

The tires on the compact squealed and the car lurched forward, Meech screaming at the driver. The Gift turned and side-stepped out of the way, his hands up, palms out, arms moving up and down, shouting “
Kef
!
Kef
!”

Rudy’s Humvee was demolished, soldiers blown out of it. A body prostrate in the road. A rag-dolled corpse. “Corpsman up!” The driver sat on the side of the road, burnt and blind, his chest protector smoking. Men gathered around the wreck. “Corpsman up!”

“Sarge?” Tucker asked Mook.

“Jay—warning shot in front of that motherfucker!”

Jason had looked for Rudy’s Italian horn. Someone held up a hand encased in a glove. Who’s was it?
Let me tell ya, Jay
, the breath plumed out of Uncle Ritchie.

“Jay!” Mook roared. The car had nosed around the Jersey barriers and was barreling towards them.

The sand around him wasn’t moving. Jason’s hand was shaking on the grip of the machine gun. The kid, Rudy…six hundred rounds a minute…Aspen on the couch, her legs drawn up under her…the heat and the stink…Uncle Ritchie and the snow; nineteen months in—it was all swirling through his head.

Mook was screaming at him.

“Jason!”

He depressed the trigger on the M240B and the machine gun came to life. A line of dust and sand kicked up off the ground, walking its way down the road and up the hood of the speeding car. Shell casings streamed from the pig, brass showering down off the Hescos. The windshield of the car disintegrated and the hood flew up, steam billowing from the engine block. A front tire exploded and the car careened sideways, offering Jason a broadside. Mook was still screaming at him, his cries drowned out by the machine gun fire. Jason strafed the vehicle in a Z-pattern, holes pocking the door panels, blowing out the rear tire.

He let up on the trigger.

“—fucking Christ!” Mook stopped screaming at him and stalked off towards the stalled, smoking car.

Jason looked at his gloved hand on the trigger grip. It was steady, still as the sands around him.

“You juiced they shit!” Tucker called approvingly to Jason, trotting off behind Mook and Espada.

Jason had scoured the dirt and sand on the side of the road, looking for the kid’s charm.
Palehorse Three, this is Sabretooth One
. The Humvee Rudy had been in looked like it’d been peeled open with a can opener, a bunch of soldiers gathered around it.
Palehorse Three
.
We’ve got mass cas here
.
Repeat
.
Mass cas
. The kid was still alive, still inside the Humvee.
Need immediate evac, break
.

Jason retrieved his M-4 and climbed down off the Hescos. A crowd of civilians were gathered across the street, talking and pointing. Mook and Tucker had circled the car. The barrels of their assault rifles were lowered. Espada was inside the car. The Gift stood up from behind a Jersey barrier, unharmed.

Jason reached the car.

“Day-em, Jay,” Tucker’s voice had lowered an octave but was no less exultant. “You lit them the fuck up…” Two adults had been seated in the front and three in the back. The driver’s headless body leaned against the steering wheel. Blood and brain matter dripped from the ceiling. “…you juiced they shit, Jay.”

Mook was on the radio.

“Ahhh, fuck…” The Gift sighed. The dead woman in the passenger seat clutched an infant.

Noise rose from the gathering crowd.

Jason stood transfixed, staring into the car. A little girl was in the backseat, drenched in red. Her arm hung from her shoulder by a strip of meat. She was crying.

“…we got wounded here, Mook!” Espada was in back with the girl.

“It haint your fault, Jay.” Tucker stood next to him, a hand on his shoulder. Jason couldn’t feel it.

“Meech,” The Gift demanded, “what’s he saying?” An old man was bleeding out in the back amid the stuffing from the cushions. Rudy’s arm and legs had been blown off. A far away look was in the old man’s eyes and his lips were moving. He was saying something. Rudy had been talking too. No one had been able to understand the kid.

“…she’s just a fucking little girl,” Espada was crying, tying off a tourniquet beneath the girl’s shoulder, his hands and arms slick.

Jason had leaned into the twisted metal of the Humvee to talk to Rudy, to tell the kid he couldn’t find his charm. Rudy was melted into what was left of his seat, his torso scorched black, his ACUs and equipment cooked to him. The stink coming off him…

“Come on, Meech,” The Gift demanded, “What’s he saying?”

The terp was talking to the old man bleeding in the back seat.

“…bou-bous,” repeated Meech, “the bou-bou—how do you say?
Monster
? The bou-bou monster…”

“That kid is suffering.” Jason looked from the little girl in the car to the crowd across the street. Young men were shaking their fingers and yelling, accusing.

“Motherfucker should have stopped.” Tucker delivered his verdict.

“What’s he saying, Meech?”

“…ghosts in the sand…”

Rudy’s face had been seared black but his mouth was moving, trying to say something.
I don’t know what he wants
, the medic looked helpless.

“The bou-bou monster,” repeated Meech. “Ghosts in the sand.” The terp gestured with an open hand, flustered, confused, overcome by the madness. “Nonsense.”

There was a glove on Jason’s shoulder.

“…shoulda’ stopped…”

Jason followed the glove up an arm and the arm to a face.

“…haint your fault, Jay…”

Tucker.

The old man was staring at the ceiling, breathing shallowly. The little girl was crying.

He’s trying to say something
, the medic in the Humvee sounded frustrated.

Jason shrugged Tucker’s hand off his shoulder. He leaned into the ravaged car—Rudy’s mouth was moving but no one other than Jason had understood what he’d been saying

—splaying his free hand, pushing Espada back, away.

Sometimes
, the kid’s burnt, bloodied mouth moved,
sometimes you just got to let go

Jason fired his M-4 once into the girl’s head, then stepped out of the car.