Fives and Twenty-Fives (32 page)

The room didn’t budge, even with this rare offer of encouragement.

“So that’s why Road Repair Platoon has this one,” he said finally. “Good rolling stock, familiar with the area of operations, and best prepared.”

My mouth went dry, and I looked up from my notebook as Major Leighton raised his eyebrows and nodded at me. I couldn’t look at him, so I focused on his sunburned head, his hairy knuckles, and the sunglasses hanging around his neck.

“Aye, aye, sir,” I said.

Cobb, sitting next to me, held my arm in the air like I’d just won a boxing match. The staff acknowledged Cobb’s mock support with nervous laughter, and I tried to smile.

After the operations briefing, I went to tell Gomez and Zahn. I made Gunny Dole come with me, and he ranted nonstop on our way to the platoon barracks.

“Unbelievable. Complete bullshit,” he huffed. “Absolutely not in our lane. Not our responsibility. This is just crazy, sir. You have to talk to him about this.”

“And say what, Gunny? Tell him the whole platoon has bad knees?”

He cursed under his breath. “Not our fucking job. I remember one time, in the Philippines. Must’ve been around ’95. The company commander wanted the Marines to cut their liberty short to go out to help this village with their sewage problem. And the lieutenant said no way. He threatened to request mast. That was a long deployment, too. Must’ve been—”

“Gunny, shut up.”

He fumed off to the side with his arms crossed as we approached Gomez and Zahn, waiting in the shade behind the barracks for details of the day’s mission. I gave it to them straight. There was no way to spin it, and no sense in trying to soften the hard facts.

“We don’t have a procedure for this sort of thing,” I told them. “No instruction book. So, we use the procedures we
do
have. We treat it like a chemical attack. We break out the gas masks and wear charcoal-lined suits and rubber gloves. We work in shifts.”

Zahn pulled a can of dip from his pocket and shoved a thick wad under his lip. He shuffled his feet and looked at the dirt.

Gomez pursed her lips, refusing to look at me.

“It’ll be hot in those suits, no question,” I continued. “So, we draw extra ice from supply. We make sure Doc Pleasant has plenty of fluid bags. We make a rotation and we stick to it. Twenty minutes in the suits, maximum. No heat casualties. And we stick to the decontamination procedures.”

“What time do we roll out, sir?” Gomez asked with eyes on her notebook and her pen at the ready.

“Tomorrow morning early. Muster a zero two hundred. I want us on the site and working before dawn. Maybe we can knock this thing out before the afternoon heat.”

“Okay.” She sighed and added a lax “Sir.”

I rubbed my sweaty palms on my trousers. “Listen. Both of you. Look at me.”

Zahn and Gomez looked up.

“This is a tough one, no question. But there’s no sense fighting it. And no sense pouting in front of the Marines. It’ll just make it worse for them.”

“Speaking of, is Gunny coming out with us, sir?” Zahn asked. “Taking a turn with a suit and mask?”

I glanced over my shoulder to gauge how Gunny Dole had taken the slight, but he hadn’t heard it. He was already halfway across the expanse of dirt, on his way to the Internet café.

“No,” I said, “Gunny can’t make it.”

Zahn shook his head and laughed under his breath.

I didn’t admonish him. There would’ve been no point. “Questions?”

They had none, so I dismissed them to prepare the platoon. They would hardly have an hour to sleep, I knew.

I went to the supply section and drew my chemical suit before going back to my room and writing out the mission order in alcohol pen on my laminated template. I fell asleep with my socks on.

My wristwatch alarm woke me at midnight. I dressed with my red-lens flashlight, not wanting to ruin my night vision. I laced my boots, zipped my flight suit, and struggled into my flak jacket. I walked through the operations center on my way out of the darkened compound. Sweat rolled down my neck and cheeks and pooled at the base of my neck. The armor plate held it there.

Cobb had the overnight watch, and he smiled over his coffee mug. A laptop played a movie on the desk behind him. He reached around to pause it. “You out?”

“Shortly. Five vehicles, twenty-two packs.” I went to the weapons rack in the corner and unlocked my rifle.

Cobb made a note of our numbers. “All right, buddy. Have fun.” He put his finger on the space bar, ready to get back to his movie.

I stood behind his chair and looked over his shoulder at the watch logs and screens. “Anything happening?” The blue force-tracker screen, a map of Anbar Province overlaid with icons representing friendly units, showed a logistics convoy of civilian-­operated trucks en route from Jordan, a few snap vehicle checkpoints, but not much else.

Cobb confirmed it. “No. It’s pretty quiet.”

I slung the rifle over my back. “I’ll radio from the gate.” As I walked out, I heard Cobb get back to his movie.

A scrum of red flashlights led me to our staging area. I heard engines warming and Marines cursing in the darkness. Two Marines brushed past me with an ice chest, and I heard them talking as they hefted it into the cargo compartment of their Humvee.

“Is he serious about these fucking suits?” one of them said.

His partner gave a mumbled reply, too soft to make out the words or the identity of the speaker.

“Gomez sounded pissed. I know this wasn’t her idea,” he continued. “Five bucks says we don’t see him in one of those fucking suits.”

I stood there, just another bulky shape with a rifle, and listened to things they wouldn’t say about me if they knew I could hear. They shuffled past me again, on their way back to the supply yard.

“He’ll give it the college-boy try, I bet. Maybe put on a suit right at the end to help with the last barrel, you know? Make a show of his leadership principles. OCS motherfucker.”

My face burned and I backed away into the darkness, hoping they wouldn’t bump into me. After about twenty yards, I turned around and approached the staging area from a new angle, calling loudly for Gomez and Zahn to make my presence known. The chatter of Marines fell away when they heard me, but they continued their work.

Gomez and Zahn jogged over and stood close to my face. Gomez gave me the report. All present. Chemical suits for everyone. Extra ice. Extra water. All vehicles fueled and ready. I went over to Gomez’s vehicle and sat on the hood while she and Zahn gathered the convoy team.

I read the mission order word for word by the red glow of my flashlight—a straight-ahead brief without encouragement or bravado. I gave them the route and the order of march. I listed our immediate actions on near ambush, far ambush, improvised explosive device, and disabled vehicle. I gave them our radio frequencies and the call signs of supporting units.

I didn’t let Doc Pleasant speak. I gave the corpsman’s brief for him: “Push water. As much fluid as you can manage.”

I asked for questions, then passed it to Sergeant Gomez before going to my vehicle, settling in my seat, and loading my radios with frequencies and crypto.

I heard a snore. It was Dodge, asleep in the backseat. He’d missed the brief.

Doc Pleasant slid into the seat next to Dodge and punched him in the shoulder. “Dodge, wake the fuck up.”

Dodge came to with a snort. “I am awake. Awake.”

Pleasant sighed. “You even know what the fuck we’re doing?”

“Of course. We are going to some place in the desert where I will speak in Arabic to some Iraqi dudes. You gentlemen will move barrels full of bad shit while sweating and cursing. Everybody will be pissed off, all day.” He closed his eyes, crossed his arms, and went back to sleep.

I let him. He had the mission about right.

The convoy rolled through the gate and fell into line. Our route took us through Fallujah. We cleared the city and took the northbound ramp at the cloverleaf. The interchange spat us out onto an empty, four-lane highway, which by some strange miracle was well lit by functional streetlights. The highway took us north into the desert.

No other convoys or civilian traffic crowded the road, so we used both lanes. We straddled the white line and stayed as far from the curb as possible.

Four times, Gomez halted the convoy to investigate suspicious piles of dirt or trash. We did our full fives and twenty-fives each time. We varied our speed and spacing. We made ourselves a hard target.

Even with all the time spent on precautions and security halts, we reached the prearranged rendezvous point before dawn. A grid coordinate, given by the State Department’s Provincial Reconstruction Office in Ramadi, took us to a dirt track leading northwest into the waste. We halted there, set the vehicles in a protective formation fifty meters off the road, and waited for the State Department to show.

Six hours passed.

The sun came up and the temperature climbed. The skin of our Humvees grew too hot to touch with bare hands. Civilian traffic filled the highway, with trucks hauling fuel south, beat-up bongo trucks taking piles of scavenged junk toward the city markets, and taxis with prying eyes rolling by our static and vulnerable perimeter. The rendezvous point placed us near a known intersection. Anyone with a mortar tube and a few airburst rounds could easily have judged the distance. The longer we stayed, the more nervous I became.

Gomez grew worried, as well. She never stood still. She moved around the perimeter constantly and snapped at Marines when they looked less than alert.

I sat by my radios and monitored the nets, but nothing came through on the frequencies given to us by the State Department. Meanwhile, the company net crackled with demands from the operation center that we stay put and wait.

At first, in the darkness, Cobb’s easy voice came through the handset. When Wong replaced him on watch as the sun came up, I could hear how he grinned, amused by my frustration. I could even hear the company staff distracting him as they came through the operations center for morning coffee.

I made a nuisance of myself, asking for an update every five minutes. Eventually, Major Leighton’s voice came through the handset.

“This is Hellbox-
Six
,” he barked, all emphasis on the last syllable, the number that identified him as the commander. I could imagine how he’d snatched the radio away from Wong. “Remain in place. Regiment confirms supporting elements en route. Make no further requests to displace from your current position. Over.”

I’d been told, insofar as radio etiquette allowed, to shut up and wait. I hung the handset on its hook, left Dodge and Doc Pleasant to watch the vehicle, and walked the perimeter.

I tried to look calm, relaxed, and unaffected. How would a guy like Cobb handle this? My Marines, in turrets or behind armored doors, acknowledged me with sweaty nods and hard stares. I tried to smile and nod back, the unwilling muscles in my cheeks twisting the gesture into something unnatural, grotesque.

The Marines took turns sealing themselves inside their vehicles to fill empty water bottles with urine. Regiment had directed no public urination as a perceived concession to Islamic culture. I checked the growing pile of urine bottles in the middle of the perimeter for signs of color. It heartened me to see that the Marines were at least hydrated. The liters and liters of piss showed not a hint of orange.

Still, I imagined how the Marines would look in the afternoon heat, in full chemical masks and suits, and how quickly they’d lose it all.

I went back to my vehicle, sat by the radios, and listened to Doc Pleasant and Dodge argue about music. Doc Pleasant lounged in his seat and let his feet dangle out the open door. His medical bag sat well out of reach. Mud caked the zippers. He hadn’t opened it in a week.

“C-Murder is the real deal,” he said, pushing the toe of his boot around in the dirt. “A true criminal.”

“C-Murder is a dirty south poser, Lester,” Dodge replied. “Those No Limit guys talk only of cars and girls. Concerned with their money, unlike the legit gangsters on the West Coast.”

“You’re half-right. But C-Murder also said, ‘Nigga owe me some money. Bitch, I want it in blood.’ And he meant it.”

Dodge considered this. “C-Murder really said that?”

“He did. And he’s a murderer. Convicted, I mean. Killed some dudes up there in New Orleans.”

Dodge chuckled. “Sounds like Iraq. Blood as important as money.”

I joined the conversation. “You’re from Louisiana, aren’t you, Doc?”

He looked out at the horizon and nodded. “Yes, sir.”

“Close to New Orleans?”

“No, sir. Not really. South and west. Cajun country.”

“Go to the city much?” I asked.

“Only to get fucked-up.” He twitched and swatted at the fly on his forehead. “New Orleans will get you. Fucked.
Up
.” He grinned, spacey and satisfied, bloodshot eyes shut just a beat too long.

I walked over and tapped his knee. “Why don’t you take a walk, Doc.” I smiled. “Walk the perimeter. Make sure everyone keeps pushing water.”

He opened his eyes and stared at me for a moment.