The Watch (22 page)

Just before I reach the bend round which I’ll catch my first sight of the houseboat, I hear Camille playing her twelve-string guitar. I rest my oar and sit there with my head bowed, listening to the long notes thrumming over the water. It’s the sweetest sound I’ve ever heard, and it fills my soul. The war falls away, and all the fighting and the dying seem very far off. I hold on to the moments for as long as I can. Eventually, the music stops, but I continue to sit there, lost in its spell. Nothing stirs, and no one seems to want to be the first to break the silence. In all of my years with the company, I’ve never seen the men remain so still and for such a long period of time. Long moments pass before they begin to drift away one by one without a sound, until I finally look up and realize that I’m the only one left. The bright band of the Milky Way is like a luminous river across the sky. The night is cold and crystalline, and there’s a frigid wind blowing down from
the mountains. I shiver and pull farther inside the sweater that Aunt Thelma knitted for me. Gazing across the barren moonscape of the plain, which is completely featureless except for the cart, I wonder, as I have innumerable times tonight, about its occupant. Personally, I’m convinced it’s a woman beneath the burqa, but who knows, maybe I’m mistaken. This haunted land is so completely different from where I’m from that, even after multiple tours of duty, I’m still not clear about who these people are and what they really want.

I cast another look at the cart before jumping down from the Hesco wall. Except for the keening wind, it’s so quiet that I almost feel I’m alone in the world. I look around and glimpse the sentries standing at regular intervals along the Hescos. It’s time to make a circuit of the perimeter. I adjust the Velcro straps on my body armor and set off.

Pratt and Barela are the first on my round. They’re manning the mortar pit and periodically scanning the slopes with night vision binoculars. Pratt hears me approaching and turns toward me so I see the muted green glow of his night vision goggles. The wind picks up, and the temperature, already bone-chilling, plummets.

’Lo, First Sarn’t, Barela says, while Pratt, as usual, says nothing. They return to scanning the field and the smudged backdrop of the mountains.

You boys are awfully quiet tonight, I remark. Everything okay?

Barela clears his throat. That music’s still in my head, First Sarn’t. It was pretty damn intense. It seemed to be coming out of the earth and the air all at once. Do you know what she was playing?

It was some kinda guitar, I answer. Then I give a low laugh. Earlier on today, Sergeant Bradford mistook it for a sawn-off machine gun.

Pratt shivers suddenly and rubs his hands together. Be nice to build a fire, he remarks.

You’d be a sitting duck for every insurgent for miles around, I reply.

I know, First Sarn’t, he says. Jus’ fantasizin’ …

Keep lookin’ at those stars, bro, Barela says, and they’ll keep you warm. You don’t see that back in L.A.

Stars! Pratt scoffs. Where I’m from, they a dime a doz’n. You can pick ’em up at the local convenience store.

Barela grins. That’s right. I forget you’re from fuckin’ Alaska, you big bear.

I turn to go, but Barela stops me. First Sarn’t, he says, I got a question.

What is it?

D’you think Playboy Bunnies would look better clothed than naked?

I smile, and Pratt chuckles. I bet them Musselmans be thrilled, he says.

Very funny, ya’ll, I remark, I can see where your minds are at. Just keep your focus on the job or you’ll soon be sayin’ hello to those seventy-two heavenly virgins.

I can’t wait, Barela says. I can hardly wait.

’Cept you’re prob’ly goin’ to hell, Pratt quips.

Not on your life, boyo. I can already see me flying aroun’ your fuckin’ head playing the harp.

My next stop is with the men manning the ECP. I make out Duggal and Lee, with Jackson asleep in the dugout. All is in order, with two men on watch and one at rest who’ll take over later. Neatly lined up on the sandbag barrier in front of them are laser range finders, rifles with night vision scopes, and night observation devices.

Duggal sees me and walks over. ’Lo, First Sarn’t, he says. What did you think of her playing? That was good stuff, wasn’t it? It sure made it hard to concentrate on the job. It reminded me of the kinda music folks play in the old country.

In California?

He hesitates, and then smiles. Nope, Punjab.

Do you know what she was playing?

I asked Masood, and he told me it’s a twelve-stringed instrument, like a lute. You pluck it and it makes that sound we heard tonight … like raindrops on water.

Twelve strings, huh? Figures.

First Sarn’t …?

Don’t mind me. I’m just talkin’ to myself. D’you know if it has a name?

Masood called it the rubab.

Rub-ab … I try out the word in my mouth. Thanks, I’ll try to remember that.

I pick up one of the night vision binoculars and study the cart. I can’t see much, and after a while, I put it down again. So how’re you getting along with Masood? Things working out?

He glances at me awkwardly and fidgets with his gun.

It’s complicated, First Sarn’t, he replies. Can you spare a moment to talk about it?

Sure thing. What up?

It’s like this, he says in an undertone, and I’d like to keep my voice low ’cos I don’t want to wake up Ash. First Sarn’t, you need to have a word with Masood. I mean, it’s barely been a day since he moved into our hooch, but he’s already driving us nuts with his questions about our mission. And he won’t listen to us—he just won’t accept our answers. We keep telling him: Dude, we didn’t sign up to save your country. Most of us signed up to get a regular paycheck and avoid working at the local supermart for the rest of our lives. We’re grunts. We’re just average Joes doing our jobs. We don’t get to make those decisions. Even Cap’n Connolly doesn’t get to make those decisions. The president makes those decisions; him, and the generals. We follow their orders and do what they tell us to do. If they ordered us to ship out to Eye-ran tomorrow, we’d go. The trouble is, he just doesn’t get it and goes on and on. He keeps saying: Yes, but you’re Americans! You went to the moon! You can do anything! If it carries
on for much longer, First Sarn’t, one of us is going to fucking snap and do something stupid.

He looks at me, and his pleading expression suddenly makes me angry at the interpreter and, by extension, the whole damn mission. Controlling myself, I reach out and pat him on the shoulder. In a calm, firm voice, I say: I’m glad you told me, Mitt. I’ll see what I can do. First off, I’ll have a talk with Masood. Maybe it would help if I moved him out of your hooch. I know Darren Simonis has some space in his hut. Let me think about it.

His gratitude is palpable; his face lights up immediately.

Thanks a million, First Sarn’t. I really appreciate it.

You’re welcome, soldier. Anything else?

Nope, First Sarn’t. That’s it.

All right, I’ll let you know how it goes.

As I walk away, I look up at the sky. High above, intersecting the Milky Way, there’s a thin gray trail left by a jet’s afterburner. The plane seems strangely out of place. Then a leaf blows past my face and rolls along the ground. I lean over and pick it up: it smells of the mountains. I suddenly feel strange as I look out at the field. Instead of solid ground there’s a sheet of water between the Hescos and the mountains. I glimpse black reeds, marsh grass, swollen cypress trunks. The wind stirs up ripples. I feel a knife turning inside me and nearly gasp out loud. The air shades to gray. There’s a ringing in my ears. I close my eyes and open them again, but there’s no change: I can still see water lapping against the Hescos, and the wires are almost completely under. I survey the sky where the jet’s trail has thickened and blurred. I slap myself hard on the cheeks before looking down again. The water begins to fade; it glides here and there, shrinking into puddles, seeping into the ground. It shimmers as I drink in the scents of sweet, damp earth.

Then it’s gone.

From the darkness behind me, I hear Barela call out: You okay, First Sarn’t?

I’m fine, I reply.

I shiver with cold. I let go of the leaf and watch it flutter to the ground.

I need some coffee. The fatigue’s weighing me down. I realize I haven’t had dinner, and my body would probably be better served if I fed myself. I turn away from the Hescos and make a detour to the mess tent. A strong gust of wind buffets the tent as I duck inside. I grab a cold MRE and tear open the pack, pouring water into the lining to let the chemicals heat the food. When it’s warm, I choke it down while trying not to compare it with my meals in the houseboat with Camille. I reach into my shirt to touch the tiny pendant she’s given me that I wear on a string around my neck. It’s a silver charm from Morocco in the shape of a filigreed Hand of Fatima. She found it in a flea market in New Orleans and knew the moment she set her eyes on it, she had to have it for me. I rest my hand on it for a moment before tucking it back in.

I wash the MRE’s taste out of my mouth with my own extreme makeover of Baton Rouge Gris-Gris brew: three packets of instant coffee dissolved in a one-liter mug of steaming water, combined with three creamers, a packet of carob powder, and one crushed No-Doz tablet. I grimace as I swallow half the mug’s contents, but the result is an almost instant hyperclarity. I lid the mug and take it with me with the idea of nursing what’s left through the rest of my watch. It’s a comforting nightly ritual, with the added advantage of giving me the energy that I need to do my job on little to no sleep.

I’m about to step out of the tent when I hear a rustle from behind it and instantly switch to combat mode. Soundlessly placing the coffee mug on top of a carton, I ease out my 9 mm and creep all hunched-up around the corner of the tent. In a narrow space between two stacked pallets of plastic water bottle containers, there’s a soldier sitting on the ground with his head held down and his hands around his knees. He raises his face as I lower my gun, and I recognize Garcia from First Squad, his face streaked with tears. He clears his throat and hurriedly wipes his hand across his face.

We stare at each other, each at a bit of a loss.

I’m the first to react. What’s going on, Rick? I ask. Ya’ll okay?

I’m sorry, First Sarn’t … I just needed some private time, and I can’t get that in our hooch.

He clears his throat again as I kneel beside him.

D’you want to talk?

He gives a strangled sob and begins to weep again while attempting to speak—soft, bitter, choking sounds that make it impossible for me to understand what he’s saying.

I place my hand on his shoulder, and that seems to steady him.

Take your time, son, there’s no rush.

I’m so sorry, First Sarn’t, you must think I’m totally FUBAR …

I don’t think any such thing. Just tell me what’s going on, and let’s find out if we can fix it.

I dunno if it can be fixed, First Sarn’t—not from here, at least.

This last remark takes on a familiar ring for me. I’ve heard it from other men before, and it usually means one thing. Making my voice sympathetic, I ask: Woman trouble, huh?

He nods. Well, yes and no. What I mean to say is that that’s just part of it.

Gimme the whole picture then.

He hesitates for a moment, and then his shoulders slope down.

My life’s fallin’ apart, First Sarn’t. I’ve lost my house. Stace—Stacey, my wife—couldn’t keep up with the bills. It happened a while ago, but she kept it from me, so I didn’t know what was going on. I on’y just found out. She’s left our house and moved in with another man … and now she wants a divorce. So I’m screwed. My life is over, and there’s nothin’ I can do about it ’cos I didn’t even know until now. She didn’t even give me a chance to make things right—just said she was no longer interested in a guy who’s never around, and that she has her own needs and they weren’t being met.

Any kids?

No, thank God!

Well, that’s one thing in your favor. Now: d’you think you could persuade her to agree to a temporary divorce for a year until you can get back and sort things out?

I dunno, First Sarn’t. Prob’ly not. Her mind’s set on this new guy, and she wants a clean break from me. That’s what’s fuckin’ me up even more: not just knowing that she’s goin’ down on another man, but that she screwed me over doing it. I mean, what would it have taken for her to at least keep up with the mortgage payments? It wasn’t like I wasn’t sendin’ her the money. Hell, I live like a pig and send her everything!

So where did the money go, d’you think?

He hesitates, and then says reluctantly: Prob’ly on pills, First Sarn’t.

Pills? Does she have a history of substance abuse?

She did, before I met her. She was a fucking Rx queen—but she cleaned up when we were together. I made her promise. And I trusted her because I was crazy about her. I guess that was my mistake. All I know is that from the moment I deployed, she went from being Staceydarling to Staceydracula double quick, and the pills are prob’ly where all the money went.

So what are you going to do now?

He strikes his forehead hard with the flat of his hand.

I don’t have a fuckin’ clue, First Sarn’t. It’s like I’m cursed … He buries his head abruptly in his hands. The problem is, I’m still crazy about her!

Recognizing the signs, I decide to concentrate on practical details to bring him out of his funk. I ask him if he has talked to anyone else about his situation.

Oh, the guys from the squad know about the house, but I haven’t been able to tell ’em about Stacey. It’s too damn humiliating.

There’s nothing humiliating about it, Rick—lots of people go through what you’re dealing with.

I don’t think so, First Sarn’t, he says, shaking his head. I don’t
mean to disagree with you, but the fact of the matter is that I’m royally screwed. First off, I know I can’t go back, so I can’t show up for the hearings. Second, I’ve no money in the bank ’cos she took it all, so I can’t afford an attorney. Third, even if I had the money, I can’t go lookin’ for a lawyer without actually bein’ there. And from what I’ve heard, family court’s fuckin’ insane. So I’m screwed every way you look at it. If your spouse files for divorce and you’re on active duty, you’re a dead man walking.