The Kills: Sutler, the Massive, the Kill, and the Hit (63 page)

The men gathered under Sutler’s awning with an open crate of beer, the cans packed in a bucket with ice, and they waited, grouped in silence to read mail and open packages. Occasionally news was repeated, read out loud, simple facts or loose comment, but the men mostly read to themselves or listened to messages on headphones. Clark sat with the satphone, his back to the Quonset, contented as he downloaded his emails. ‘See,’ he said, holding up his fist. ‘It’s working for me. Oh, hang on. No it’s not.’

Kiprowski received packages from his mother, and he softly repeated details to Samuels: she’d caught a report on NPR about a contractor who’d handed out footballs to the kids in Nasiriyah, and this had spurred her to speak with the local Wal-mart, who were keen on the idea but hadn’t got back to her. She sent him care packages with candy, Hershey’s Kisses, bars of chocolate, messages from his sisters, cards with found poems, details she thought would interest him, substitutes for the conversations they were not having. ‘She hates Skype,’ he said, ‘email, anything that involves a computer.’

Pakosta butted into the discussion, and zoned in on the poems, and while Kiprowski was willing to share what he’d been sent, he resented the cards being read out loud. Pakosta snatched a card from Kiprowski’s hand, and Rem (surprised to see this) watched with interest as Kiprowski stood up to the man and took the card back without a word.

Clark moved the satphone closer to the Quonset. Watts told him to be careful.

‘You fuck with that and we’re all in trouble.’

Clark looked over his shoulder, sheepish. ‘It kind of gets through then breaks off.’

‘That’s what it does. Try later.’

Samuels moved away from the group, in his hands a bundle of unopened letters.

‘You aren’t reading those?’ Thwarted by Kiprowski, Pakosta sorely needed entertainment.

Samuels tucked the letters into his pockets and mumbled that he’d get to them later.

‘Christ, Samuels, what you waiting for? The Dead Sea to freeze or something?’

‘Dead Sea?’

Pakosta gestured toward Kuwait.

‘You think we’re near the Dead Sea?’

‘Sure we are.’

‘You don’t know where we are.’

‘Yes I do.’

‘Which province are we in?’

‘Al-Muthanna. Al-Amrah?’ Pakosta answered smartly.

‘Which one?’

‘Muthanna.’

‘Al-Muthanna’s a desert. Al-Amrah’s a district. I’m asking about the province.’

‘I knew that.’

‘How many provinces are there?’

The men, interested in Pakosta’s cluelessness, began to guess wildly. Santo said nine, Watts said four. Pakosta said he could give a crap.

‘Name the governor of our province.’

Chimeno stabbed his finger in the air. ‘That’s a trick question. I know for a fact there isn’t a governor.’

Samuels slowly shook his head. ‘Yes there is. There’s a governor who decides on the mayors and the chiefs of police. And there’s the local council, which the governor convenes, which is overseen by the Administrator. The governor would be an Iraqi, the Administrator is someone from Southern-CIPA.’

‘Paul Howell.’ In this they sounded unanimous.

Samuels again shook his head. ‘Howell is the Deputy Administrator. He’s the finance, the guy with the money. The Administrator is responsible for governance. It’s the Administrator we’re missing, not the Governor.’

Chimeno couldn’t keep up. ‘What? How many people run this place?’

Sutler, who was shucking peanuts, interrupted. ‘Actually, they haven’t replaced the Administrator,’ he paused to recall the name, ‘because the English and the Americans can’t agree on his successor. And as it happens, HOSCO is also missing its regional chief, a person they’ve yet to appoint.’

‘So there’s no one running the place?’

‘Howell. Paul Howell.’

‘That’s what I said!’ Chimeno became exasperated. ‘I said that.’

‘But he’s like some deputy, right?’

‘Deputy Administrator. That’s the title, which isn’t quite what you mean.’

‘But he’s the one who got us all this stuff?’

Sutler blew the husks off his hands. ‘No. The provisions are HOSCO but CIPA helped expedite the transport.’

The men raised their beers, clanked cans. Samuels, disgusted at the conversation, said he didn’t see why everyone was so smug. ‘And you guys get to vote come November.’

Santo held his hand to his heart and said he felt a great stirring of hope.

Pakosta laughed. ‘That’s not hope. That’s gas. Won’t make a bit of difference.’

‘You think?’ Samuels picked out a fresh beer and popped it open. ‘Once we’re out of here they’ll start looking for people to blame.’

Kiprowski and Clark worked together to assemble the second barbecue. Sutler announced that he had ground steak, flown in from Germany. The whole lot was defrosted so they had to eat it tonight. The group cheered, opened fresh beers, and toasted Sutler with cries of
The man! The man!

When Sutler saw Watts, he handed the tongs to Kiprowski, rooted through the food crate, and called Watts to him and asked casually how he was. Watts replied, ‘Fine,’ sullen enough not to invite a discussion. Sutler, box in hand, approached the table.

Clark returned his attention to the satphone. ‘I’m on! No, I’m not.’

‘It’s not much.’ Sutler offered the box to Watts. ‘You could take some photos and send them to your daughter.’

Beer in hand, Watts looked at the box, a pack of Entenmann’s cinnamon rolls. He looked up at Rem, puzzled.

‘We don’t have candles.’

Pakosta suggested they use cigarettes.

‘Maybe something else? Everyone could sing. I don’t know how you do these things out here.’

Watts cleared his throat and spoke quietly, ‘I don’t have a daughter.’

‘Sorry?’ Sutler froze. ‘I heard it was your daughter’s birthday?’

‘
Wife
.’ Properly considering Sutler’s gesture Watts softened. ‘And that’s nice. We could do that. I think she’d like that.’

Pakosta immediately complained he’d rather get ass-raped than sing happy birthday over a couple of cupcakes to some woman he hadn’t met. ‘Once that shit gets on YouTube it goes viral.’

Watts hung his head, huffed out a laugh, and Pakosta slapped him on the back and called him
pops
.

‘What are you talking about?’ Watts looked at Rem as he spoke to Pakosta. ‘I never know.’

Rem heard his name being called and Clark, now sat beside the barbecue, held up his phone. ‘Why is your wife writing to my mother?’

Rem held his hand up to his ear and said he hadn’t heard.

‘Your wife is called Cathy? Cathy Gunnersen.’ He held up the phone. ‘Why is she sending emails to my mother saying HOSCO have shut down the pits?’

The men all turned from Clark to Rem. Santo took the phone from Clark.

Watts hung his head.

‘HOSCO haven’t announced anything.’

‘Is it true?’ Clark stood up.

‘I’ve not heard anything from HOSCO. I’m waiting to hear from them.’

‘But they’ve said something?’

Pakosta shook his head, spat on the ground, said in a low voice, ‘I knew it. I asked you, and you said there was nothing going on.’

Santo didn’t appear to understand what he was reading. ‘What’s this about contaminants? There’s a whole list. Dioxins. Lead. Cadmium.’

Rem said he’d seen it.

‘You’ve seen it?’ Santo sounded alarmed. ‘Why don’t we know about this?’

‘It’s what she does. Pay no attention. She’s caught up in a debate that’s happening back home.’

‘About the burn pits?’ Santo pointed toward the pits.

And now Sutler weighed in. ‘CIPA have ordered the pits to close. HOSCO haven’t complied. If they comply then they’re admitting to illegal burning.’

‘Bullshit, they’re just trying to get rid of as much as they can.’ Pakosta also pointed to the pits. ‘That’s what this is about.’ He turned to Rem. ‘You knew this?’

‘I saw the email yesterday. I’m waiting to hear from HOSCO.’

‘They’ve closed Bravo?’

Sutler stepped in front of the barbecue, his hands raised. ‘It’s why I’m here.’

All heads turned to him.

Sutler asked if anyone liked whisky. He invited them into the Quonset.

‘I don’t know if you’ve heard the rumours – about a city. If so, they’re true. There are four sites under consideration, but I can tell you this one is looking like the favourite.’ Sutler couldn’t suppress a smile. ‘It will be Camp Liberty. It’s not official. But it’s almost certain.’

The men looked to each other and the maps on the table.

‘A city. A new city is going to be built here.’

‘Here?’ Samuels looked from the map to the view outside the Quonset.

‘Right here.’ Sutler was serious. ‘Supplies start arriving tomorrow from Southern-CIPA.’

‘I knew it,’ Watts preened. ‘What did I tell you? There was a rumour.’

Sutler smiled beneficently. ‘They haven’t made it official – yet.’ He folded his arms, an authority now. In nine months they’d flatten the Beach, and the plain would be divided into lots designed to hold a new city with its own water supply, schools, an intel centre, an airport, accommodation (buildings not huts), there would be a PX, a shopping complex, a cinema. In nine months the largest military base would begin construction in the southern Iraqi desert. The Massive, as the project was known, would have its own advanced medical unit, airfield, water, and waste-processing. You name it.

‘The size of the fuel dump is where the Massive gets its name. It isn’t the size of the military base but its capacity to store oil. We’re bringing a city here, right where you’re standing. The first job will be to build a proper road, something more substantial than the existing route.’ He’d calculated the support a place like this would need. Equipment would be flown to Amrah City and dropped on site. The base would be snapped together out of pre-manufactured units shipped from Singapore, Kuwait, Bahrain. The Massive would be assembled in situ, but until the word came from Washington, they had to wait.

‘So what about the burn pits? It’s true then, they’re closing them?’

Sutler shrugged, and looked to Rem. ‘We’re all waiting on news.’ He knew only what he’d told them.

✩

The entrance to the apartment was also the entrance to Mr. Liu’s Tai-Chi School. The classes began in the early evening, and in the winter the hallway became a harbour for men sheltering from the cold. In the summer it became a latrine. Cathy had a habit of holding her breath as she unlocked the lobby door.

With the key in the lock, she was surprised by someone coming up from behind and signalling for her attention. With some relief she recognized the boy from the park – dressed in the same white, blue-rimmed tracksuit. The same Bulls cap.

‘Someone was here.’

‘I’m sorry?’

‘They left a note.’ The boy offered Cathy a folded sheet of paper. A receipt for ninety-five boxes of mouthwash. At first she thought the boy had handed her a piece of scrap paper. If it wasn’t for her name and address printed on the receipt. Mouthwash?

She invited the boy to the taqueria, sat with him, had him describe the men in detail, but could not guess who they were. They’d come in a car, he couldn’t remember the make, looked casual, like any other man on the street, dressed in jeans and a T-shirt, sunglasses, and pushed the paper in between the doors because they were locked.

‘Roscoe, right? Roscoe. I need to ask a favour.’

The boy took off his hat, she couldn’t decide how old he was. His head shorn, a stern look about him, but still baby-like.

Cathy explained that she needed to go to Cleveland. She might drive and stop somewhere overnight. Just one night. ‘The thing is,’ she hesitated to ask, ‘Nut.’

‘Sure, I’ll come.’

‘I wasn’t asking . . .’ Cathy paused and laughed and started to explain how this wasn’t what she was asking, because – what about his parents, what about, I mean, wasn’t there school somewhere in the mix here, apart from the fact that, however likeable the idea, because it seemed so inappropriate, apart from the fact that they didn’t know each other.
I could be anyone
. But still. Easier to agree. If there was somebody else in the car the dog would be manageable.

Roscoe waited for Cathy to explain herself. He didn’t live at home, he said. He was eighteen and he lived with an aunt, and pretty much did what he wanted.

He explained himself so plainly that Cathy lost her argument, retreated to a standard
let’s see
. And the boy sat back, knowing exactly what this meant.

They sat in silence after this, the boy with folded arms, his cap on the table. Cathy looked across the road to the apartment. She could have seen this boy a thousand times and not paid attention to him once.

She said goodbye to Roscoe at the taqueria, and decided to check her email at the library. She found fourteen emails from
boston_adams
with twenty-seven attachments. As she opened the documents she found information from a Senate Sub-Committee on burn pits, affidavits from doctors, but more interestingly documents from HOSCO including manifests of waste shipments to Camp Bravo, SB Alpha, and Camp Liberty. Included with the emails was one brief message:
Cathy, I believe you will find this interesting
.

✩

Rem couldn’t sleep. The idea stuck on replay. A city? Nothing about it made sense. HOSCO were scrambling to finish the few jobs they could manage, and it was no secret that much of what was promised would not be achieved. It was common knowledge – even Cathy knew this from the news and papers back home. So a city? Here? From scratch? In a desert?

Just supposing it was true, where would you start? You’d have to build a sewer system, electric, water, roads, everything from nothing. A city built on sand? Wouldn’t that be the first problem? And what was that story about building a house on sand? An idea so deep in the culture, so ingrained, that going against it invited collapse and godly punishment.

He stretched the idea in his head, exercised it, and found it lumpen, illogical. If it was a joke – and surely it was – he couldn’t see the point.

Kiprowski slept with his back to the room, silent enough and still. Rem had opened the blinds a crack to keep an eye on Sutler at the Quonset, and noted that the man finished his work about one thirty, a little later. The lights dimmed and Rem listened as Sutler hauled down the Quonset door. After that all sound was lost to the generator, before it too shuddered and stopped.