The Trek: Darwin's World, Book II (The Darwin's World Series 2) (44 page)

I’m familiar, maybe too familiar, with this route. My attention wanders. I have to keep reminding myself to stay alert. I’ve been doing this for a year and I need a break. And sleep. Even someone I could talk to, maybe share a little of the stress. But there’s no one.

My precognition has warned me so far, but it could fail at any time. PreCog has never been a Talent I felt confident using. I’ve had hunches often enough to never disregard them, but sometimes there
aren’t
any hunches. Some of the IED’s surprised me when they blew up. The failure of my PC warning system didn’t put me in danger, but I was responsible for others. And anyway the hunches barely give me time to deploy my bubble, not change the patrol route or hold up long enough to recon ahead.

The enemy knows the route at least as well as I do. Not that familiarity matters. Any number of jihadists could have scampered out with an explosive magnum opus and planted it since the last patrol passed. In that respect the routes are always new.

I walked, looked around, tried to listen to any slight warning signal from my Talent. And thought. You’ve got time to think when you’re on patrol, most of the time. Just follow the routine, and think.

They’re creative, the true believers. Stubborn bastards, too; kill a few hundred, and a few thousand volunteer to replace them. We’ll run out of soldiers long before the Middle East runs out of believers.

The jihadists view their fellow humans as a means to express political and religious beliefs. In’shallah. If you’re an innocent bystander, just tell Allah that Mullah Omar sent you and collect your virgins. Assuming you’re a male. Is there a female Paradise?

There’s plenty of time to wonder about things like that, walking patrol. Are they true-believers who find their version of paradise in being reincarnated as a jihadist’s reward? Or are they sinners, punished by being a virgin for the martyr to deflower? Do they get replaced when one is de-virginized, or maybe just recycle their virginity?

Nothing to do in Paradise but eat grapes and dates, listen to the fountains splash, and deflower virgins. The Prophet said so, or maybe it was a sheik. How many virgins can dance on the head of a pin?

No dancing, Chief. Just keep walking, look ahead, and watch the rooftops for movement.

There’s a sheik somewhere that knows the answer to the virgins conundrum. They can be quite creative, those sheiks. Fatwas, interpretation of doctrine, are readily available, delivered up to the faithful on demand.

You can think of a lot of weird stuff while you’re patrolling.

Weird comes natural to me. I’m a psychokinetic, a PK, with a few useful additional Talents. I’m not a wizard, even though there’s an agency of the government that calls me one. Who knows, maybe they’re right. What if all the ‘wizards’ of legend, Merlin and the rest, were psychokinetics, telepaths, or precognitives?

I use my mind to move objects. I can do it if the object is not too big, too heavy, or too far away. And if I’m not too distracted by mulling over how many virgins are waiting in paradise.

I reached out ahead and stirred the trash ahead of us. Nothing blew up, this time.

If the trash hides a booby trap, stirring it around will trigger the explosion. Mines and command-detonated IED’s won’t react to my efforts.

Not many countries have exploding trash. Afghanistan does.

We kept moving. Nothing grew along the dirt track except trash, and nothing moved except when it was stirred by the wind. Or me.

#

The troops get to unwind after a patrol. As for me, I lie down and wait for the headache to go away. A cold washcloth across my forehead helps. There’s nothing else I can do but close my eyes and wait for the headache to go away. Aspirin barely helps.

The headaches are a side effect of my PK Talent. They were worse before, not so bad now. I was nauseated after every session with the computer, vomiting, holding my head and trying to keep the worst of the pain away. Think migraine level pain but maybe worse back then. Now I just get a headache.

Firing wires to the IED’s are well disguised. They rarely lead to a house unless the local jihadist doesn’t like the dweller. He knows we’ll likely raid the house. Maybe the hapless homeowner won’t survive. The jihadists occasionally plant dummy wires, but we still raided the hut to make sure. Sometimes the bombers get careless.

Political posters plastered the walls, a change made since I was last here. A dozen posters in a row were the same, then the photos changed. Perhaps there was an election scheduled.

A dog sniffed at a carton five hundred meters ahead. Maybe some grunt’s pet had gotten out of the compound. The dog probably smelled the Afghani who’d handled the carton last. An American carton, picked up from a dump by an Afghani; they’re so poor they rummage through our garbage if they can get away with it. We try to stop them and sometimes we do. There’s already enough trash on the roads for them to use when they hide IED’s. We don’t need to give them more.

I made a note to check that carton as soon as we’re close enough. The dog might have smelled something else, maybe a bomb.

There were no people around this morning, only that curious dog. It might be significant, or the people might be listening to a political speech on the other side of the village. I would know by the time we got back to the compound, not that it would do much good then.

People are usually out, walking along, chatting with neighbors, carrying huge bundles and driving donkeys with even bigger bundles strapped on. Young guys ride bicycles to somewhere or nowhere. Kids use a stick to roll wheels, holding races in the track. Laundry hangs overhead on lines. The bread merchant in his stall would be selling traditional flat loaves to women, both haggling good-naturedly over the price.

Women here frequently dress in loose pants with a kind of knee-length jumper over that, scarf covering their heads. Occasionally there’s one wearing a blue burqa. Only the feet are visible, often wearing medium-heel stylish shoes. Go figure. Vanity, thou art everywhere, even under a sack.

But the people weren’t visible on the day of that last patrol.

#

I began my tour in Afghanistan as an attached supernumerary. Even though the Department of the Army, DA, had sent me to an infantry company TDY, no commander was going to turn troops over to a temporary-duty rookie warrant. I wasn’t even infantry, the Army had given me an intelligence military occupational specialty, MOS.

That first company commander added me to his 3rd platoon. A suspicious second lieutenant, the leader of 3rd Platoon, wondered how he got so fortunate. His platoon sergeant was even more suspicious. ‘Who are you, why are you here? How come I’m stuck with you?’  I didn’t need telepathy to know what they were thinking.

I couldn’t tell them. They wouldn’t have believed me anyway.

“We’re on QRF duty today, Chief. If we go, you’ll go with us. I won’t have time for you, I’ll be too busy, so stick with third squad. They’re short-handed anyway. You can use that rifle, right?”

I nodded and the platoon leader went away. The platoon sergeant gave me a curious look and then he left too. Maybe he’d seen stranger things, or at least thought he had.

QRF; the company was a standby quick-reaction force to assist whichever unit needed us. We were what once were called reserves. Reserves had marched into battle from behind the combat line, but QRF troops get where they’re needed by helicopter or armored fighting vehicle.

The day went by. No call came in for assistance. We stood down the next morning.

I followed the squad to the dining facility, a long canvas version of a Quonset hut that was metal-framed and air-conditioned. Two long rows of tables stood along the walls, folding metal chairs at the tables, an empty aisle down the middle. The dining shelter had checkered tablecloths, condiment bottles on the tables; A1 Sauce, mustard, ketchup, hot sauce. The bottle of Tabasco on the table was half empty. Tabasco is an essential food for soldiers.

#

I learned how field soldiers live while I served with that company. They can play dominoes or cards after they’re dismissed, maybe play a little beach volleyball or toss a football around. Wrestle with the guys, lift a few weights; barbells are easily improvised from rolls of barbed wire slipped over an iron pipe. Clean weapons, fill canteens and hydration bladders, wait to be called out again. Hang out in their hootch and write letters, just yak with squad members. Welcome to the infantry. Most of the time, infantry duty is boring. Sometimes it involves heavy labor. Occasionally it gets very interesting very fast.

I talked to the people in third squad, tried to learn their names. Pretty quiet bunch; short-handed because they’d lost one man killed and another had been wounded and was still hospitalized.

They were standoffish; I wasn’t one of them and never could be. There’s no room for a warrant in a light infantry platoon, although Special Forces commonly uses them. I got the rank because of security considerations. The Agency expected me to fit in without being noticed, but instead I stuck out like the proverbial sore thumb. Way to go, superspooks.

The troops unbent enough to tell me about the man who’d been killed. Private Willie Jackson had been new in-country when the IED blew up. Not bad soldiering skills on his part, just bad luck. The explosion triggered an ambush and he bled to death before help could arrive. The battalion had a memorial service with a kind of improvised ‘altar’ down front. They’ve had a lot of practice since arriving in the Middle East.

Jackson’s boots stood atop a square wooden box, heels together. A taller box stood behind this, bayoneted rifle upright, blade stuck into the box. Jackson’s helmet rested over the rifle butt.

The troops had put up their own memorial. They’d nailed two planks together in a cross and it now stood in a place of honor at the end of their hootch. A woolen scarf, probably Jackson’s, draped the crossbar. An empty soda can and a full water bottle stood at the base. RIP, Willie Jackson; the name was on the crossbar, written in marker.

I was an unknown quality to the troops, temporary, not someone they trusted. The rumors soon began. They decided I was some sort of CIA spook. Close, guys, but not quite.

The CIA does incomprehensible things in Afghanistan, the Delta Force guys only a little less so. And who knows what the Special Forces types are doing? Growing beards.

‘Who the fuck gets to grow a beard in the Army? Special Forces, that’s who. Gotta fit in with the locals, that’s what they claim. And who sent this fucking spook to mess up our squad, anyway? We lose Jackson, they send us a fucking warrant named Tagliaferro? Jesus, the Army’s finally lost their fucking minds.’

The second time we drew QRF duty we got called out. The Chinooks whop-whopped in, dropped the rear ramp, and we shuffled inside. We sat along the sides of the fuselage in metal-framed seats with slung canvas to sit on. I was nominally an officer so I got a seat, along with the squad leaders, platoon sergeant, and the platoon leader. The other seats went to soldiers who’d been in-country longest. The remainder of the platoon got the middle of the deck to sit on. Newbie, pull up a section of floor. The rest of you, slide back between that guy’s legs and make room.

Increasing vibration, thumping noises, the helicopter lifted off and gained altitude fast. The helicopter’s crew chief manned an M-60 machine-gun at the starboard door as soon as we were off the ground.

I’d ridden in a Chinook before, but never with this much company. There were about thirty troops with their gear in the aft cabin now. These things are huge.

The flight smoothed out once the chopper reached altitude. I had body armor and helmet on, just like the others. My rifle was held upright, magazine not inserted in its well. We can stick the magazine in and chamber a round after we get there. The lieutenant will tell us when.

I kept my mouth shut, listened, and learned.

“All right, people, magazines in. Do NOT chamber a round until you feel dirt under your feet, and then only when you hear shooting. If we start taking fire, you’ll know it. You grenadiers, keep your muzzles up and downrange. Bravo Company had an accidental discharge last week and it could have caused a lot of casualties. I don’t want casualties in my platoon, so keep your head out of your ass. Do it by the numbers people, just like you’ve practiced.

“Chief, you stay close to Corporal McGregor. Do what he does. When people start firing, put some rounds where the squad is shooting, OK? I’ll talk to you when we get back.”

Thump, bounce, the wheels hit the ground and roll. The rear hatch drops and I hustle out, trying to follow the guys in front. Stay with Corporal McGregor and go where he goes. Magazine is in, the rifle’s muzzle is up, the safety is on. McGregor is running so I run too. I’m breathing a little harder, the altitude is higher and the air is thin. The squad leader waves us into place, so I flop down between the SAW gunner and a rifleman. He gives me a dirty look and motions me aside. I move over and make room. The rifleman needs to be next to the gunner. He’s carrying extra belts of linked 5.56mm rounds for the SAW, the squad automatic weapon.

I’m at the end of the squad but there’s another squad beyond me. Having people around you in a combat situation is comforting.

Look to the front. There’s nothing there but brown, flat, dusty desert. Nothing is moving. I hear gunshots off to the side and look wildly around, but the guys next to me aren’t moving. No one on this side is shooting, so I calm down, try to just keep my cool.

There’s a weed out front of me, maybe forty meters away. Could a jihadist hide there?

I watch the weed. It’s dead and dry. Nothing’s there, but still…does my Talent still work? I’ve had this doubt before. So far, it’s always been reliable since I started the AI-feedback course at the School.

I reached out with my PK and tried to pull the weed. It snapped off, leaving the roots in the ground. I started to look around and the private next to me growled “Keep still. Are you trying to draw some rag’s attention?”

It turned out later that the gunshots happened because a new troop fired a round and three others nearby decided they should too. They got a memorable ass-chewing from a weary company XO, the First Lieutenant Executive Officer. He’d seen it before.