The Shadow Patrol (5 page)

“Doesn’t sound like self-defense.”

“It was necessary.” Wells leaned across the table, fighting the urge to grab his son by the shoulders. “Evan. I’ll tell you about what I’ve done. Everything I can, except the stuff that’s classified and might get you in trouble. But I’m not going to argue the morality. Some things you can’t understand unless you’ve been there.”

“That’s what guys like you always say. That nobody else gets
it.”

“These people we fight, they target
civilians
. Innocents.” Wells was arguing now, contradicting what he’d said just a few seconds before, but he couldn’t help himself. “They strap bombs to kids your age, and blow themselves up in crowded markets.”

“When we fire missiles and blow up houses in Pakistan, what’s that?”

“I am telling you, I’ve seen this up close, and we make mistakes, but these guys are not our moral equivalents.” Wells wondered whether he should explain that he personally was certain that he’d saved more lives than he’d taken. But they weren’t talking about him. They were talking about Iraq, and Afghanistan, and Vietnam. Those long, inconclusive conflicts that ground to a close without parades or treaties. Wars where the United States had a hundred different goals and the enemy had none, except to send American soldiers home in body bags.

“Let me ask you something, then,
Dad
. Suppose I told you in two years, ‘Hey, I want to join the Army. Enlist.’ Would you be in favor of that?”

“Not as an enlisted man,
no.”

“But—”

“Soldiers follow orders. If you’re concerned about the way we’re fighting, you’ve got to be giving those orders. Be an officer. That’s life. You wanted to go to West Point, get your butter bar”—the gold-colored bar that newly minted second lieutenants received—“I wouldn’t be against that.”

“But
you
quit. You left the agency.”

“Because I was disgusted with the politics inside Langley. But I’ll always believe that the United States has the right to defend itself.”

“Oh, so that’s what we’re doing?”

The contempt in Evan’s voice tore a hole in Wells’s stomach real as a slug. Suddenly, Wells knew that Evan had agreed to see him for one reason only. Evan despised him, or some fun-house vision of him, and wanted him to know. Wells wondered what Heather had told Evan. Or—

“Is this because I wasn’t around? Are you
mad?”

“I have two real parents. I couldn’t miss you any less.”

“Listen.” Evan stiffened, and Wells knew he’d said exactly the wrong word. Then he repeated it. “Listen. You think you’re the only one wondering what we’re doing over there? Everybody who’s been there asks himself whether we’re doing any good.”

“But you keep doing it. They keep doing
it.”

“Because those soldiers don’t have the luxury of second-guessing their orders. They do what they’re told, and when they’re outside the wire, they have to figure out who’s a civilian and who’s the enemy, and if they guess wrong they
die—”

“They’re all volunteers. Right? They knew what they were getting into. Whatever we’re doing over there, they’re not bystanders. They’re morally responsible.”

“That makes them heroes, Evan. Not villains.”

“Just like
you.”

Wells pushed himself back from the table. He’d pictured meeting his son a hundred times: hiking in Glacier National Park, rafting on the Colorado River, even driving to Seattle for a baseball game, an echo of the road trips he’d taken with his own father to Kansas City. He’d imagined Evan would want to hear the details of his missions, would ask him about being Muslim. Wells had converted during the long years he’d spent undercover, and he’d held on to the faith after coming back to the United States. He’d even wondered whether he might become something like an uncle who visited once a year. Ultimately, he’d imagined his son telling him,
I want you to be part of my
life.

But somehow he’d never imagined this particular disaster, this fierce, cool boy taking him apart as if they weren’t blood at all. The bitterest irony was that Evan’s dispassionate anger wasn’t far from Wells’s own casual cruelty. Wells didn’t doubt that, with the right training, Evan would be a Special Forces–caliber soldier. He had the reflexes and the size. Though this might not be the moment to mention that career path.

“Evan. You’re a strong young man, you’re politically engaged—”

“Don’t patronize
me—”

“I’m
not
. But you think I’m a war criminal—”

“I didn’t say that—”

“Close enough. And if not me, a lot of guys I know. And that’s so far from the truth that I’m going to lose my temper soon, and I don’t want that. You’ve got to be able to separate the war from the men who fight.”

“The war
is
the men who fight.”

“Let me take you home, and in a few years, when you have more perspective, we can try again. If you want.”

“I’m never gonna change my mind.”

“People your age always say that.”

“Let’s
go.”

* * *

WELLS WOULD HAVE LIKED
to ask Evan about basketball, or girls, or his classes, all the everyday details of life as a teenager. Surely high school hadn’t changed, even if kids flirted now in 140-character bursts instead of whispered phone calls. But they’d left that conversation behind. They drove in silence. When they arrived, Heather waited on the front steps. Evan opened his door before the car had stopped. Wells sat in the car and watched him go. He’d lost his relationship with his only child without ever having one. Neat trick. After Evan disappeared, Wells stepped out of the
car.

“Smart
kid.”

“He is that.”

“Doesn’t like the war much. Or
me.”

She turned up her hands.

“You could have warned
me.”

“I wasn’t sure it would go that way and I didn’t want to jinx it. I’m sorry.”

“I like him, you know. Politically aware, intelligent—he’ll run for something one day. Something important. And
win.”

“I hope
so.”

“At least I don’t have to worry that he misses me. He made that clear.”

“Would you rather he did? He felt some terrible lack in his life?”

She shoots, she scores.
“Maybe I’ll try again in a few years. Meantime, if you or he want to reach
me—”

She stood, hugged him. “Good-bye, John.”

* * *

WELLS DROVE.
He’d booked a hotel for two nights, but now he just wanted to roll on 90, let its long twin lanes carry him east. He’d grown up in Hamilton, south of Missoula, and he’d planned to visit the graveyard where his parents were buried. He’d have to wait for another trip to pay those respects.

He wasn’t angry with his son for questioning the necessity of war.
Blind faith in your leaders will get you killed,
Bruce Springsteen had said. But Wells could take only the coldest comfort in his pride. He’d lost any chance to connect with the boy. If Evan thought of him at all, it would be as a sperm donor, the man who’d contributed half his DNA and then disappeared.

Wells closed his eyes and counted silently to ten. When he opened them, the wide prairie on either side of the highway hadn’t changed. Time to face the truth, leave his son behind.

* * *

AND THEN HIS CELL RANG.
A blocked number.

“John. You up in the woods, scaring the bears?” Ellis Shafer, his old boss at the agency. He was scheduled to retire in the spring. But Wells figured Shafer would work out a deal to stay. He claimed to have a happy life outside the agency, but he was in no hurry to get to it. Just like Wells. At this moment, Wells knew he’d buy whatever Shafer was selling.

“Montana. Visiting Evan.”

“Sojourning.”

“Is this call about the size of your vocabulary?”

“Master Duto has something for you. A mission, should you choose to accept
it.”

Wells was silent.

“Before you say
no—”

“I didn’t say
no.”

“Must have gone badly out there.”

Wells didn’t answer.

“John?”

“I realize you enjoy demonstrating your cleverness at every opportunity, Ellis, but now is not a good time.”

“Duto wants you to go to Afghanistan.”

“He forget I don’t work for him anymore?”

“He thinks there’s a problem in Kabul, and I think he’s right.”

“What kind of problem?”

“The kind better discussed in person.”

Sure as night was dark, Duto had an angle here. Angles, more likely. “What’s my excuse?”

“Officially, you’ll be there on a morale mission. Also—and this will be shared privately with senior guys—you’ll be making an overall assessment of the war. Nothing in writing, just impressions that you’ll present when you get home. You go over, spend a couple days at Kabul station. Have dinner with COS”—an acronym that sounded like an old-school rapper but in reality stood for chief of station—“then visit a couple bases, meet the Joes. Talk to whoever you like.”

“Pretty good cover.”

“Yes. Come to Langley, and Duto and I will fill you in on the rest.”

Wells wondered what Evan would make of this offer. No doubt he’d dismiss it as macho crap, a pointless exercise.

“Great,” Wells said. “I’m
in.”

3

HAMZA ALI, AFGHANISTAN

I
n the village, five minutes ticked by. The sun lost itself behind a cloud. Young pulled open a pouch on his Kevlar vest, extracted a pack of Newports.

“You have to smoke Newports, Coleman? I can almost see you on a billboard wearing one of those Day-Glo orange suits. Right above an ad with Billy Dee Williams sipping from a quart bottle.”

Young took a deep drag, blew the smoke in Fowler’s direction. “Menthol tastes good. Plus you people don’t smoke them, so I don’t have to share.”

“You people.”

“White people. You’re the one who went there.”

“Lemme try
one.”

“A white person?”

“Come
on.”

Young tucked away the pack. Fowler surveyed the empty village.

“What are they doing?”

“Don’t know. And not guessing.”

“Where’s B Team?”

“Lighting up, probably. And nothing menthol. Nothing that comes in a pack.”

Fowler was embarrassed he hadn’t realized. Of course. The three soldiers on the B fire team had turned into hash smokers the last couple months. Along with half the rest of the platoon.

“What are we doing here, Coleman?”

“You’re tripping over your own damn feet. I’m trying to stay alive. Get home.”

“No, what are we doing
here
? Right
now.”

“Maybe Rodriguez found himself a kebab stand.”

“Kebabs.”

“Or tacos. I don’t know and I don’t care. You’re so curious, go check it out for yourself.”

Just that quick, Fowler decided he was tired of being scared. “You know what? I think I will.”

“You find any kebabs, let me know.”

* * *

THE STREET WAS FILLED
with the random junk that was everywhere in Afghanistan, shreds of plastic and canvas, the stuff even the goats couldn’t eat. No metal, though. Metal was valuable. The Afghans salvaged
it.

The village looked as dismal up close as it had from a distance. In richer areas, Afghans lived in compounds hidden by ten-foot mud-straw walls. Here the walls were barely waist-high, exposing the battered homes behind them. The air was sweet and greasy, with a bitter tang underneath. A mix of wood smoke, cooking oil, and sewage.

Fowler heard the voices of women and children hiding in the houses. The words faded as he moved closer, picked up again once he passed. They couldn’t see him and still they treated him like a leper. As if even their voices were a gift he didn’t deserve. He wanted to hate them. But then, they hadn’t asked him to come here. He reached the house where the Afghan had led Rodriguez and Roman. This was the fanciest place in town, the tallest midget, with seven-foot walls and a filigreed gate. He peeked through the filigree—

And a single shot cracked behind him. Fowler flattened himself against the wall, checked left and right. Chickens squawked wildly. Behind him, Young tossed away his cigarette and scanned the empty fields that lay between them and the rest of the platoon. Fowler wondered whether the Talibs had lured them out here to cut them off, trap them.

But nothing happened. Terror and boredom, the twin poles of infantry duty. The chickens chattered away. Fowler took advantage of their noise to pull open the gate. He slipped inside, two quick sliding steps.

The yard was empty aside from a rusty Weber gas grill, which didn’t make sense, and a brand-new ATV, which kinda did. A diesel engine, probably an electrical generator, hummed somewhere in back. Electricity and an ATV. By local standards, whoever owned this place was living large. Fowler eased the gate shut and waited for someone to open the door, walk out of the house. But no one
did.

Fowler stepped forward, then hesitated, holding his left leg off the ground with the exaggerated care of Inspector Clouseau. He could explain everything he’d done so far. He could say he’d come up for orders. But if he sneaked up to the house to see what Rodriguez was doing inside . . . Spying on a sergeant was definitely a no
-
no.

But maybe he wasn’t spying at all. Maybe they needed him. Maybe the Talibs had captured Rodriguez and Roman. Fowler imagined them tied back-to-back. They looked up in awe as Fowler picked off the insurgents one by one, with the practiced double taps of a Special Forces lifer. Fowler saluted them casually:
No need to thank me. Just doing my job.
The vision was ridiculous. Still, it spurred him. He crossed the yard, pressed himself against the house.

And heard a voice. A woman. Moaning quietly. Had he stumbled on a brothel? Impossible. The Afghans stoned women to death just for talking
to men. Fowler inched along the side of the house to a window covered by a wrought-iron grille. He lowered himself to his knees, peeked
in—

And found himself watching porn. The video was playing on a television propped against the back wall. Rodriguez and Roman had come here to
watch porn
? Fowler didn’t get it. Then he looked around the room
and—

Everything made sense. Roman sat against the wall, a glass pipe in one hand, lighter in the other. He flicked the lighter to the pipe and sucked, greedy as a newborn. He exhaled a gray cloud and rubbed his stomach happily. “Good smoke,” he said to the ceiling. “Steep and deep.”

Rodriguez ignored the commentary. He stood next to a wooden table as the Afghan with the scar put two plastic-wrapped bricks on a digital scale. “Two point zero exactly. Sixteen kilos total.”

Rodriguez pulled a Ka-Bar, a knife, off his belt. He carefully sliced the plastic around one of the bricks. “What is that?” the Afghan said.

“Testing, one, two, three.” Rodriguez pulled a pouch from his backpack. “Soon as this powder in here turns green, we’re ready to
go.”

“I promise you, it’s good.”

“From the factory to you,” Roman said. “Buy direct and save.”

Rodriguez stepped to the television and kicked over the DVD player hooked to it, stopping the show. “Stand post at the front door, Roman. Lemme finish, get us out of here. We wasted too much time already.”

“Sergeant, respectfully point out that I am stoned to the gills and not at full combat readiness—”

Rodriguez snapped the pipe from Roman’s hand. “Now. Before I jam this down your throat
.
”

Fowler picked up his helmet, pushed himself up, inched along the wall. Then he heard Roman’s gear rattling inside the house and his composure broke. He ran for the gate.

Back on the street, he closed the gate as smoothly as he could. He checked over his shoulder. The house’s front door was just opening. Fowler squared his shoulders and walked back to Coleman Young. He didn’t look back. He was proud of himself for that much anyway.

“I miss anything?” Young said.

“No kebabs. The door was closed and I couldn’t decide whether to knock. I stood there until I felt stupid and left.”

“That’s
it.”

“That’s
it.”

“Huh. What happened to your pants?”

Fowler looked down. His knees were covered with a dark brown splotch that stank of diesel. He must have knelt in a puddle without realizing. It was the porn’s fault. The porn had distracted him. He wiped madly at the stain and succeeded only in covering his hands with a greasy film. Might as well be wearing a sign that said “I’ve been spying on you, Sergeant.”

“It was a drug deal. A big one. They had a scale.”

“Don’t tell
me.”

“Kilos. It’s true.”

Young grabbed Fowler’s Kevlar, pulled him close. “I don’t care if it’s true. I don’t want to hear
it.”

“What do I
do
, Coleman?”

“You keep your mouth shut, Private.” Young pushed Fowler back so hard that he nearly fell on his butt. “Be cool. They coming
now.”

Fowler turned. Rodriguez and Roman walked toward him. The Afghan in the blue robe was gone. Probably still in the house, watching porn. A real good Muslim. Dealing smack to the infidels.

Roman grinned at them, pointed a finger pistol at Fowler. Fowler’s mouth went dry. If he didn’t calm down, he feared he might cry. “I’m not built for this, Sergeant,” he muttered.

“It’s all right, Ricky. Nothing’s gonna happen now. I’ll watch your back and we’ll talk later. Back at the FOB.” Young tapped out two Newports, handed one to Fowler. Fowler wiped his mouth, lit up, puffed away.

“Tastes like an air freshener.”

“Good for you. Makes your lungs all minty. Smile and salute.”

B Team rounded the corner as Rodriguez reached them. His backpack sat snug on his shoulders, Fowler saw. All that extra weight. “Anything to report?”

“That one shot,” Young said. “Nothing else.”

“All right. We’re done here then. Got a couple names. Probably junk but Weston’ll like it. He can give it to the S-2.” The battalion intelligence officer.

“They’ll give him a pat on the head and a present with a big red
bow.”

“When Daddy’s happy, everybody’s happy.” Rodriguez poked at Fowler’s knees with the muzzle of his carbine. “What happened there, Private?”

“Sergeant, figured I’d look over the left side of the villa. Fell in a puddle of diesel. I think it was diesel, anyway, sir. Smells like
it.”

“Excellent soldiering. We get home, I’m signing you up for the Very Special Forces, where everybody’s a winner.”

“I think of myself as a very special soldier,
sir.”

“Yes, you are. You see anything over there around the corner? Besides the puddle?”

Fowler held Rodriguez’s eyes. “Goats, Sergeant. Nothing but goats.”

“All right then. For showing that initiative, I’m giving you point on the way back, Private. Look alive. Do me proud.”

“Yes, Sergeant.”

* * *

THEY SHUFFLED BACK
toward Hamza Ali. For once, Fowler wasn’t worried about mines. He couldn’t stop thinking about the scale, those plastic-wrapped bricks. He’d seen drugs before. Heck, he’d grown up two hours from the Mexican border. He’d smoked pot like everyone else in the universe.

But buying heroin by the kilo was a different game. Fowler couldn’t figure what Rodriguez was doing with the stuff. He wasn’t selling it on base, that was for sure. And where did he get the money for it? Fowler didn’t know what a kilo of heroin cost, but even here at the source it had to be a couple thousand bucks.

Next question: Did everybody know what was going on? Was Fowler the only sucker in the squad? Young hadn’t seemed surprised. Although Young always acted so cool. No, if everybody knew, Rodriguez wouldn’t have bothered to hide the deal. So Fowler had a choice: keep his mouth shut, ride out the last couple months. Or go to the CID—the Army’s Criminal Investigative Division—which had offices at the big base at Kandahar. But if the CID officers came poking around, Rodriguez would probably guess that Fowler had snitched.

Maybe Young would have the answer. Fowler was almost embarrassed to be leaning so hard on Young, who was barely two years older than him. But Young got along with everybody. He had that black-guy way of being cool without working at
it.

The squad was stretched out, moving slowly, half-assed. Fowler slowed down to let them catch up. Rodriguez was directly behind him, Roman on the other side of the canal. Fowler was glad that Young was watching.

When they got about three hundred meters outside Hamza Ali, Fowler saw clumps of men and boys walking toward him. The show at the school must have ended. Fowler had forgotten all about the Stupid Afghan Tricks. The kids made a game of jumping across the canal, their gowns ballooning around their legs. A boy kicked one of the soccer balls that the platoon had handed out, his steps as precise as Fowler’s mom dicing an onion, back home in the kitchen. Fowler wished he could be there
now.

The boy popped the ball into the air and headed it to himself. Kids were kids everywhere. Fowler smiled. “Hey,” he yelled. Fowler pointed at himself. “Kick it here. Me.” The kid hesitated and then kicked a perfect curling strike that soared out of the canal toward
him—

* * *

AND EXPLODED.

Fowler heard the shots
after
he saw the ball disintegrate. They came from the right side of the canal, away from the village, an AK magazine fired on full auto.

Fowler jumped into the canal for cover and spun to find the shooter. To his right, the rest of the squad followed. They were stretched in a line, rifles at the ready. The fields in front of them looked empty. Then Fowler saw the shooter. It was the Afghan with the scar, the one who’d sold the drugs to Rodriguez. He was a long way off, at least four hundred meters, and sneaking along a low wall perpendicular to the canal. He was doubled over like he had a bad case of the runs.

For once, Fowler wasn’t afraid. His training took over. He grabbed the rough stone at the edge of the canal and pulled himself up to get a clean shot. He didn’t squeeze too tight and he led the target. He thought he had the
guy.

But he missed. The dude was just too far off and too low and too many walls were in the way. Fowler aimed again, tightened his finger on the trigger—

He never heard the shot that cut his spinal cord in half. Didn’t feel it either. The pain faded as quickly as it bloomed. The earth rushed up to him and caught his chin. He didn’t understand what had happened to him, couldn’t frame this new place he’d gone. This lost country.

Pure confusion. He stood up, but he didn’t. His legs didn’t work, or his arms. The dark trickled into his eyes and his brain got thirsty and he needed air. So he took a breath but nothing happened. He had to breathe. Breathing was easy. Everyone could breathe. But not Fowler. Then the fear, panic, a pure white panic that flared against the black, but the black came on, stronger and stronger, and the white shrank to a pinprick and then nothing at all
and—

He died.

* * *

YOUNG WAS CLOSEST
to
Fowler and the first to realize what had happened, that he’d been shot from behind, from somewhere in the fields between the canal and Hamza Ali. Young ran to Fowler. The others followed. They pulled his body into the canal and set up a perimeter and screamed at the villagers to get back, back, back.

Rodriguez got on his radio, called Weston. The rest of the platoon arrived minutes later. But the shooter was gone by the time they reached the huts behind the canal that were the most likely firing point. None of the villagers had anything to say. No one had seen anything. And so the Lost Boys of Bravo Company could do nothing but carry Fowler’s corpse back to their $2 million Strykers.