The Severance (9 page)

Big Joe, the newest member of the Kodiak Platoon, had been the turret gunner of one of those trucks pulling security. Since his return to Afghanistan, he had actively avoided the gunner’s turret. He could drive trucks or even dismount and fight, but something about sitting uncovered in the gun turret frightened him. Yet, despite his best efforts, there he sat, feeling exposed in the night.

Through his night-vision goggles, Joe caught a glimpse of a car moving on the mountain road in the distance, driving without headlights. The vehicle caught Joe’s attention because civilians didn’t normally travel at night, due to the nationwide curfew, and driving without headlights was suspicious, even without a curfew.

“Hey, Joe, you got that car?” Parsons, the driver, asked over the intercom.

“Yeah, I see him, barely. He’s hard to track in the hills without the headlights,” Joe replied.

Several minutes passed before Joe saw the car again. It immediately disappeared again in the hills.

“Sh-should we get the Captain or Sergeant McBride?” Joe asked.

“Nah, man, we’ll just keep an eye on it. No worries,” Parsons said, unconcerned.

Joe took a deep breath and tried to calm down. A minute later, Joe reacquired the car. It had increased its speed.

“Parsons, that car is getting closer,” Big Joe said.

“Yeah, I see it,” Parsons responded.

“We should tell someone. That car is freaking me out,”

“Okay, Joe, I’m calling it in. Keep your pants on.”

Parsons tried to contact Sergeant McBride on the radio, but the platoon sergeant didn’t respond. He tried again, this time trying to get anyone to answer him.

“The radio is on the fritz again,” Parsons said, as he leaned over to troubleshoot the equipment, which meant pounding on the radio with his gloved fist.

Joe didn’t answer. He’d lost the car in the terrain again, but they could hear the engine straining at high RPMs to move up and over the terrain. Looking behind him, Joe saw the majority of the platoon still focused on the stuck vehicle. He shouted to get their attention, but the whine of the stranded vehicle’s winch drowned out his calls.

The car was a bomb—that was for sure.

Phantom pains surged up Joe’s previously broken leg and he began to sweat.

The car pulled around the bend and was now a thousand feet away, with no signs of slowing.

“This guy’s not stopping, Joe. Let them know we’re here,” Parsons said casually.

“I’m on it,” Joe replied, grabbing the handheld spotlight in the turret. Hitting the “on” switch, he directed an intensely bright beam at the windshield of the oncoming vehicle.

Cars always stopped when hit with a light, because it was well-known among Afghans that Americans would kill anyone who got too close to them with a vehicle, especially at night. Neither Joe nor Parsons had ever seen a car continue when hit with a spotlight, but this car not only failed to stop, it increased speed.

“Shoot a warning shot, Joe,” Parsons ordered.

Joe dropped the light and reached for his M-4 carbine. Procedure dictated that warning shots were to be taken with the lowest caliber weapon possible, but he couldn’t budge it from the makeshift gun rack in the turret. The weapons sling had become tangled around the turret’s turn crank. Joe tugged at the rifle two more times, frantic because he couldn’t free the weapon. The car was drawing closer and closer.

“Joe, you going to shoot?” Parsons asked, now sounding nervous himself.

“My carbine is fucking stuck!” Big Joe yelled, pulling at the weapon with all his might.

“Fuck the M-4, dude! Use the 240!” Parsons shouted.

Joe released the stuck carbine and grabbed the M240’s charging handle, jerking it back to make the machine gun ready to fire. The car was now only 200 feet away and closing fast.

“He’s going to ram us! Shoot!” Parsons shouted, his voice booming in Joe’s intercom headset.

Joe haphazardly fired a five-round burst from the machine gun, without shouldering it. He’d intended the bullets to miss, to serve as a warning to the oncoming car. What actually happened was different. Three of his rounds impacted on the hood and the two remaining rounds punched through the car’s windshield on the driver’s side. The car began to swerve on the road and ground to a halt along the rock wall, about 40 feet from the MRAP’s front bumper. Joe released his grip on the machine gun and sat back, trembling.

“Joe, what the fuck!” Parsons screamed.

“Dude, he was coming right at us! You said shoot!” Joe replied.

“What the fuck happened to a warning shot! You weren’t supposed to shoot him!”

“I didn’t shoot him!”

Parsons turned the truck’s headlights on and activated the floodlights. Both soldiers removed their night-vision goggles and looked at the stopped car.

“That guy is dead, man,” Parsons said.

“You don’t know that!” Big Joe replied.

“Fucking idiot! You put two in the driver. He’s not moving. We’re so fucked!” Parsons said, pounding the steering wheel.

“He was coming at us! I didn’t have a choi—”

“What in the hell is going on?” Jake bellowed to Big Joe from the road. Sergeant McBride led four dismounted soldiers forward of the trucks, weapons at the ready.

“Sir, the car charged us!” Big Joe called down to Jake.

“Where was your warning shot?” Jake growled.

“I had a p-problem with the M-4.”

“Switch out with Parsons! Right now!” Jake shouted.

“Yes, Sir,” Joe replied, climbing out of the turret. A moment later, Parsons appeared in the turret, adjusting his headset, and gave Jake a thumbs-up. Jake returned the gesture with a scowl.

“Sir!” McBride called out, gesturing for Jake to come forward.

“What do we have?” Jake asked, as he walked toward the car.

“Doesn’t look like a hostile, Sir. Certainly not a suicide bomber,” McBride replied.

“Man, this is going to be such a pain in the ass,” Jake said.

Jake was more annoyed with the prospect of the two weeks of agitation than he was troubled by the death of an innocent human being. Accidently killing civilians in a combat zone usually only resulted in a painstakingly long and annoying inquiry that led to a slap on the wrist at the most. The worst that could happen was a demotion for Big Joe as the shooter and another letter of reprimand for Jake as the leader who was ultimately responsible.

Ramirez began to examine the driver of the vehicle.

“What’s the word, Doc?” Jake asked, leaning on the hood of the still idling car.

“The word is ‘dead,’ Sir. Took one in the chest and one in the forehead,” Ramirez replied, stepping away from the car. He removed his latex gloves and tossed them to the ground.

“That wasn’t the word I was looking for,” Jake said.

Glancing over his shoulder, Jake saw that the unfortunate Afghan driver was missing most of the back of his head and was slumped over the steering wheel. Before becoming a soldier, Jake would have vomited at this sight, but over time the disinterest he now felt had grown stubbornly out of war’s hard soil.

He removed his helmet and ran his fingers through his matted, sweat-soaked hair. This wasn’t the evening he had planned. He had hoped to spend the night with Jessica, making love, working up a sweat in an entirely different fashion.

“Sir, I need you to take a look at this,” McBride said, snapping Jake back into the present moment. The platoon sergeant was looking in the trunk of the car, surrounded by the other soldiers.

“Whatcha got?” Jake asked, pushing himself off the hood.

McBride pointed inside the trunk, where two large gym bags lay. One of them had been opened, revealing its contents—neatly bound stacks of crisp U.S. one hundred dollar bills.

It was more money than any of the soldiers had ever seen.

Jake looked at the money and saw his son’s education paid for and a comfortable retirement without worry.

McBride saw a new pickup truck and braces for his daughter.

The other soldiers saw the end of their abject lives.

They all looked at the money for several moments, without speaking.

“What are your orders, Sir?” McBride finally said softly.

“Put them in your truck,” Jake whispered.

“I’m sorry, Sir, I didn’t hear that,” McBride said, stepping closer to his officer.

“Put the bags in your truck. Prepare to leave and don’t call anything in to higher,” Jake said.

“Yes, Sir,” McBride answered. He zipped up the open bag and hefted both bags from the trunk. He ordered the soldiers to return to their vehicles and for Ramirez to pick up his used latex gloves. Jake watched as the soldiers scurried about, loading up in their assigned trucks. The stuck vehicle had just been made ready to travel when Big Joe started shooting, so they were ready to roll.

Screwing up all of his courage, Jake pushed the body of the car’s driver over and away from the steering wheel. Taking care not to come in contact with any brain matter or other gore, Jake leaned into the car, stepped on the brake, and shifted the vehicle into reverse. After the brake released, the car lurched back, away from the rock wall. Jake turned the wheel, angling the vehicle toward the ravine, shifted the car into drive, and jumped away. The idling car rolled forward and disappeared into the darkness of the ravine where, seconds later, the sound of a smashup at the base of the ravine thundered.

“Sorry,” Jake muttered, as he walked back to his vehicle.

“Why did you do that, Sir?” Bena asked, as Jake got into his truck and put his headset on.

“Shut up and drive,” Jake said, adjusting his mic.

The platoon returned to FOB Salerno in silence. Once back at their barracks, Jake instructed everyone that there was to be no talk of the incident. Jake and McBride locked themselves in McBride’s barracks room and examined the money and the bags. One of the gym bags contained a folder with a construction contract from the International Security Assistance Force and the Government of the Islamic Republic of Afghanistan. From the parts of the document written in English, they learned that the money had been the first of three payments for the construction of a large civilian airfield in the Ghazni Province. Given the fact that the Ghazni Province was over 120 kilometers away, the only thing that made sense was that the Afghan they’d killed had been a corrupt contractor trying to make a quick getaway to Pakistan.

Jake counted the money once and McBride counted it a second time, to be sure.

“Four million, six hundred thousand dollars,” McBride said, as he set down the last stack of hundreds.

“Good to know we can both still count,” Jake mused.

“Okay, now what do we do?” McBride asked.

The early morning chill had given way to a sunny midday with its seasonally appropriate and pleasant 75 degrees. A perfect day by anyone’s standards, especially by those who were about to be decorated for valor in battle.

But Jake had a major problem, Jessica Walsh, and it had to be solved. With his flight to Bagram bumped up, he had to deal with Jessica sooner than he was prepared for. Better now before I lose my nerve, he thought.

He looked at the picture of his wife and son that he carried in his wallet. John was about two years old in the photo. Amy was wearing her green sweater; she looked amazing in it. But then, she looked amazing no matter what she wore.

Replacing the picture in his wallet and putting the wallet in his back pocket, Jake set out toward the building where Jessica lived, a single-story concrete building near the hospital. He had only a basic outline of what he wanted to say. He planned to wing the details and keep it short and sweet. Jake reviewed what Jessica knew about him. She had his full name and that was more than enough to track him down anywhere he went. There was no running or hiding.

At the entrance to Jessica’s building, Jake had the sudden urge to run away, nonetheless. He took a deep breath, telling himself that this was something that had to be done. He opened the door and stepped inside.

A long hallway bisected the building; on each side of the hallway were doors leading to each room. When Jake had lived there before relocating to the tent, he had shared his room with three other people. Nurses were permitted only one roommate.

He walked along the hall until he came to Jessica’s door, and knocked before he had time to talk himself out of it. Even after knocking, he had the urge to run. As the seconds passed, Jake wondered if she’d heard him. Maybe there could still be time to get away. Then, he heard the creak of Jessica’s bedsprings as she began to stir and sit up.

Maybe he could still run before she got to the door if he moved right then and there. The dead bolt on the other side of the door began to rattle. Jessica was at the door. There was no more time. The door opened and Jessica poked her head out, squinting in the light of the hallway.

“Hey, you,” she said, trying to muster a smile.

“Hey, what’s up,” Jake replied.

“I didn’t expect to see you so soon.”

“Oh, I’m sorry about that—”

“No, no, it’s fine. It’s a pleasant surprise.”

“Yeah, that’s so nice of you to say, but I really need to talk to you about something.”

“Come in,” Jessica said.