Knife (9780698185623) (7 page)

Hagan stood at Dalonna's locker and propped his hand on the wood and leaned in to the pictures.

“Donna, did you get married in the eighties?”

“No, dickhead. We got married in the Philippines. It's hot as shit there and Mirna's hair was all frizzy.”

“No shit. All her hair?”

Dalonna looked like he was trying to remember something he'd forgotten. Then he looked at Hagan and shook his head.

“Dammit, Hog. No. Not cool. Not all of her hair.”

Hagan laughed and wandered over to Massey, who was putting up a picture of his niece, Penelope.

“She's five, Hog,” Massey said. “Don't perv out.”

Cooke laughed, Dalonna shook his head, and Hagan held up his hands like he'd dropped something on the floor and broken it. Penelope was cuter than Dalonna's girls, but they all had that careless, invincible shine to their faces. Shaw looked at the pictures of Penelope and Dalonna's girls. They all looked like the girl from the poppy fields.

•   •   •

A
t 0530 hours the operators of the two squadrons, wearing baseball hats and sunglasses pushed up on the crowns of their heads, sat around white tables facing a large whiteboard.

The exiting CO was a thick colonel with a Civil War mustache. Not fast-food thick but hypodermic-needles-before-the-gym thick. Veins were visible through the sleeves of his shirt and the mustache was likely an effort as long as the hop. He could've waxed it at the tips, it was so full, but he must've used up all his wax or never had any to begin with, because the ends flapped ragged. Like a half-inch rope cut with a knife. He was tapping his foot, held a metal pointer against his forearm, and kept his eyes on his watch. He began right at 0530.

“We've got a nice football field–sized community of nylon tents snug between two-foot-thick, twelve-foot-high concrete walls.”

He sounded hoarse, like instead of using scissors, he'd chewed the ends of his mustache off and was having a hard time swallowing the hair. He spoke in declarative fragments.

“Airfields are here.”

He paused to spit in a foam cup on the table behind him. Then he stabbed a large area southwest of their tents with the pointer.

“About a two-minute drive.”

He hit the pointer on a bare spot beyond the phones and computers.

“GMVs and other vehicles here.”

He pulled at his mustache, nodded, and held out his hand.

“About a minute walk from the war room and the TOC.”

He traced a large perimeter to the west of the tents.

“Range is here. It was ours. Now it's yours. We run it and use it. You see anyone outside your unit on it, they probably shouldn't be there.”

He didn't tell the men what they should do in that situation. Just looked at them, shrugged, and continued with his brief. He told them that out of more than a hundred house calls, they took fire from all but three. He cracked his neck, closed his eyes, and shook his head.

“We lost fourteen men to these fuckers.”

He spit in his cup.

“They can't shoot for shit, but they can blow shit up. Al-Ayeelaa is everywhere. Every house we hit led to more of them. They're in the damn air you breathe.”

He hit his pointer on a black-and-white photo of an overweight man with glasses.

“Intel's been looking for Tango1 for the last couple weeks. This is him. He's likely been involved with recent bombings in the area, but after our two birds went down we weren't in any shape to look for him.”

He opened his hands and shook his head. Then he hooked his thumbs in the loops of his pants and toed the ground for a little while. Shaw thought of the fourteen men going down in the birds in the mountains. He wondered if they'd felt anything.

“That's why you're here. With any luck he'll pop hot for you guys and you can get the shithead.”

He nodded to himself, spat again into his cup, and walked out the door. Everyone watched him leave the room.

“Great 'stache,” Hagan said.

•   •   •

T
he two squadrons spoke briefly after the outbound CO's talk and then went their separate ways. They would operate as individual squadrons throughout the hop, hitting their own targets in different lands, unless a particularly enticing target required their collaboration. Shaw's CO told the squadron they wouldn't get the green light for missions for another couple days, so they made final preparations to their kits, zeroed weapons, watched the news, and straightened out all their shit in general. The muezzin's
salat
s echoed throughout the FOB from mosque speakers in the surrounding neighborhoods, and the prayers were already merging into the soundtrack of the war. Soon the men would hardly notice the noise at all.

It was hot out even in the early hours after the brief. They shot in T-shirts, without body armor or helmets, and finished their day-zero after a couple minutes, to ensure their rounds would hit where they wanted them to. Then the teams threw rounds downrange for a couple hours to stay warm and give their trigger fingers the workouts they'd become accustomed to. Just before noon Shaw's trigger finger was pulsing and cramping. He hollered that he was done, and most of the others agreed and decided to call it a day before the night-zero.

“Clips to end it?” Cooke asked.

“Only if the loser really gets nailed,” Hagan said.

“You'll lose, you idiot,” Dalonna said.

Everyone laughed and Hagan adjusted his sunglasses. He held his weapon in one hand and pumped it to the sky. “I'm a fucking hollow-point god! Invincible and with a foot-long cock! I can take anyone here.”

“I got you,” Cooke said. “When I win you go ahead and take that nice foot-long and sit bare-assed on a GMV that's been sunning for the day.”

Hagan looked at Cooke for a while, his face set and eyes narrowed. “Cooke, you're a genuine grass-fed Texas pussy.” He threw a leg forward theatrically and bowed. “Challenge accepted. What do I get if I win?”

“Whatever you want, sweetheart.”

“Good. I've been considering this for a while. Years, maybe.” He looked around the range, beyond the concrete blast walls leading to the tops of the mosques and neighborhood homes to the drab specks of mountains in the distance. He spread his arms wide, holding his weapon by the grip. “Gentlemen, we're in goat country now. Cooke, if I win, you need to take your longhorn-humping ass and go find a goat on an op and stick your small Texas thistle weed in its crusty goat ass.”

Cooke laughed and spit at the targets downrange. “Goat sex. Sure. Sounds like something you'd consider for a while. You got it, bud.”

Hagan looked confused. “What?”

Cooke smiled and shook his head. “Nothing. Don't hurt yourself. We got a deal.”

Massey, Shaw, and Dalonna brought out some used ammo clips while guys from other teams stood in a line with their arms crossed, weapons slung, and teeth blackened by dip and chaw. Shaw set the clips in a triangle on the wooden base of the target stands. Each clip was no wider than the fingernail of a pinkie and a couple inches in length.

“Three rounds,” Cooke said. “One in each clip, no more than two seconds.”

Hagan stared at him. “Your dick. One goat's ass.”

“Call the time, Mass,” Cooke said.

The teams stood shoulder to shoulder behind the shooters, their arms crossed and muscled shoulders blotting out the sun and laying a solid block of shade at their feet. The teams stood far enough behind Cooke and Hagan so none of them would catch any brass, but close enough to see the rounds' impact. Massey told them to get ready and aim, then fire. He clocked the two seconds on his watch and both of the pops from their rifles coughed
pop, pop, pop
in time. The teams and shooters walked toward the targets and Cooke let out a rebel yell. He'd hit all three clips square in the middle. There was a neat, clean hole through the center of each. Hagan had holed two and nicked the third.

“I hate my life,” Hagan said.

Cooke whistled.

“Don't worry, Hog. I'll pick out a nice one for you.”

•   •   •

I
t had to be close to one hundred twenty degrees in the sun. The walk from the range to the GMVs really got their swamp-ass running—Shaw's armpits and crotch seeped through his top and bottoms, and Dalonna was so wet it looked like he'd pissed himself. Hagan's back tattoos were visible through his soaked white T-shirt and the men had their bottoms rolled up to their knees.

“That one right there,” Cooke said. He pointed to the GMV at the far end of the column. Heat waves shimmered off its armored sides. It was last in line and had taken the sun since it rose hours before.

“You're still a pussy,” Hagan said, unbuckling his pants and walking to the vehicle. “Big grass-fed pussy from Texas.”

“Ass on, you bum,” Cooke said. “Clock it, Mass.”

Massey looked around. “When did I become the time bitch?”

Laughter trickled around the dry shooting range but no one offered his watch instead. Breaths of wind kicked up small puffs of dirt.

“Fine. Ass on, Hog,” Massey said.

Hagan's ass was large and meaty. Hairy. The blond hairs twinkled in the sunlight and the operators winced as he eased onto the hood of the GMV, cupping his distended, hairy balls with his hand.

“Foot-long, huh?” Cooke shouted. “Hope you're as generous with the charities back home, Hog. Lots of puppies and little kiddies could use your help.”

Hagan flicked everyone off and sat on the vehicle with a quick jerk of his knees. He cried out immediately and the men were bent at the waist so fast and laughing so hard they hardly noticed his screams had died off and he wasn't on the hood anymore. Hagan was howling and shrieking and he'd made his way about halfway to the line of men with his pants at his ankles before most even noticed he was off the hood, standing bare-assed in front of them. He pointed at the hood and said the GMV had grated his ass. Everyone walked over to the GMV and Shaw peered close. He saw little flecks of skin curling toward the sky in the paint of the hood and Cooke whistled again.

“Damn, Hog,” Cooke said. He picked up a small scrap of Hagan's skin between his fingers. “Just like shredded cheese.” He offered the skin to Hagan. “I'll give you fifty bucks to eat this.”

Hagan winced and slapped at his behind with the back of his hand. He craned his neck over his shoulder, looking toward his backside. “I'm not eating any part of my own ass, Cooke. I have principles.”

“Principles, maybe. But you can't shoot for shit.”

“Cooke, fuck yourself. Mass, do we have any ass cream?”

Massey looked at Hagan and raised his eyebrows. “What the hell is ass cream? That's not a real thing. So no, I don't have any ass cream.”

“Dammit, Mass. Ointment.” Hagan cupped his ass in his hand and came away with small flakes of skin on the palm. He held the skin up for the others to see. “Balm. Ointment. I need some damn ointment for my shredded arse.”

“Of course I have ointment,” Massey said. “And did you say
arse
? You trying out for SAS or something?”

“I don't know what I said. And maybe. I hate all of you. My ass is on fire.”

“Well, thank God it's your ass and not your arse,” Massey said. “I'm out of British ointment.”

“Mass, seriously. I'm burning. Where's it at?”

Massey turned toward the tents and pointed. “The tent, you bloke.”

Hagan turned around and walked off to the tents, his pants at his ankles and dirt clouds kicking up at his feet.

“Learn to shoot and you won't be so ass-hurt!” Cooke yelled after him.

“I bet he would've eaten it for a hundred,” Dalonna said. “Hog doesn't even know how to spell principles.”

•   •   •

W
ith hours left to waste before the night shoot, Massey and Shaw went to the gym while Dalonna called his girls back home and Hagan rubbed ointment on his backside. The fear and anticipation kept them awake, so most walked with rucks for hours in the hot sun or shot at the range. The gym was private and beautiful and packed with guys who had witnessed Hagan burn himself on the GMV hours before. Muscles were tightening and tested under strained barbells, and white teeth gleamed bright through ragged beards. Heavy metal screamed through speakers one moment and then switched to classic rock, country, or rap the next, and no one seemed to notice or care. The gym was packed with kettlebells, bench presses, pull-up and dip bars, and rows of dumbbells and treadmills. There were even big box fans in the corners of the room to keep the place a little cooler and to keep all the stink out. In the first couple months and years of the war, poles and water cans full of sand or water sufficed for weights and exercise equipment. Sometimes men would just find large rocks and boulders and haul them around for hours.

Squadron and team rules were set in place for working out on hops. They might have seemed restrictive to the true meatheads of the unit, but they made perfect sense to those who didn't juice. No maxing out on weights, and cardio sessions were maxed out at eight miles or an hour. Whichever came first. There weren't specific checks in place, but since it affected operational capacities, most operators followed the rules.
Screw personal records if they would get anyone shot
or blown up.
It was a squadron mantra on hops.

Same as with the gym, the chow hall was a noticeable improvement over their food sources in the past. The men were used to eating MREs in birds, GMVs, or in the hamlets, homes, and villages they visited, but the chow hall had wooden tables and chairs and clean metal utensils. There were big steel vats of hot food and it was available at any minute of the day. There were a couple TVs on the walls and local staff had been hired as servers. They stood behind the vats and smiled at the men, saluting them with steel tongs.