The Village (33 page)

“Yes.” There was no enthusiasm in Lang's voice. The other two wanted to tell him they were impressed, but the captain held himself at a distance.

“Doc will want your time,” Blade said, looking at his watch. “I'll send it to her.”

“Three fifty-seven,” Lang said, sounding flat. “See you in the mess hall.”

Lang walked the few blocks to his brick and mortar BOQ room, opened the portable fridge, and guzzled down a quart of Gatorade. There were two narrow beds in the room, one with a footlocker shoved at the end for Lang to rest his heels, and two scratched metal bureaus with too many books and pictures piled on top. One was a black-and-white photo of a striking woman in her midfifties, with long hair, high cheekbones, a bright smile, and light eyes which shone with warmth and intelligence, leopard eyes. A gentle leopard.

Lang looked at the photo, at a stuffed duffel bag lying askew on the bed next to his, at the whitewashed cinder-block walls, and back at the photo. For a moment his shoulders slumped. He didn't know why it was hitting him so hard. Seventeen years, that's why. He'd been going to the Cosgrove home for seventeen years. So maybe he should go home now with Cos. And leave the team behind? That was bright. Cos would keep him informed. She'd already fought it for a year; he'd see her next month. He didn't want to think about it.

He stripped off his sopping clothes, walked into the tiny bathroom and vomited. He felt his insides rush, voided himself, flushed, left the bathroom for a second bottle of Gatorade, returned and vomited a second time. Too weak to stand, he lay facedown on the cold tiles, weight on his chest and forehead, his overheated body glad for the cold.

When his body had cooled down, he showered, gulped a third quart of Gatorade, and cleaned his ugly rifle, with its two barrels, twin magazine holders, and heavy optical sight. Then he walked slowly to the mess hall.

It was after eleven and the cavernous room, with its shatterproof glass windows and tables bolted to the floor, was nearly empty. The three of them sat at a long table, a dozen glasses with different liquids spread out, trays heaped with sausages and eggs. Caulder had bounced back and was wolfing down the eggs. Blade and Lang were too exhausted to eat much.

“Staff Sergeant Roberts sleeping in again?” Lang asked. “Second Sunday in a row.”

The Sunday runs were optional. Still, the absence of a team member was unusual.

“Maybe he sensed you were going to go wild, sir,” Blade said.

The excuse was flat but Lang didn't pursue it. They were enlisted and he was the commanding officer, but that wasn't why they were holding back. You couldn't choose your parents or where you lived. And if you didn't go to college, forget about becoming an officer. But who chose to become a Marine, who went recon, who
liked
going thirty hours with no sleep on two canteens to reach a checkpoint eighty miles away while the wind cut like a whip—who became one of the dogs—that you decided for yourself.

They were a team. If the staff sergeant was off somewhere, that was like your older brother not showing up for dinner. When your father asked where he was, who'd ever answer that question?

Caulder changed the subject.

“Me and Blade are hitting the souk, sir. Wrap up our Christmas shopping,” Caulder said. “You and Captain Cosgrove want to come along?”

“Meaning will our Intelligence Officer get a hummer for you?”

“That would help.”

“Cosgrove's on security patrol,” Lang said. “Then he's leaving on tonight's flight to Dover. His mother's been readmitted. So the souk's out.”

The sergeants said nothing for a moment. The team, together for two years, had talked with Mrs. Cosgrove a dozen times, at parties, marathons, training exercises. They considered her good people, always interested in what they were doing. She never said it, but they sensed she gave them high marks. Especially nice from a professor, finely dressed, with a striking face and a direct gaze. She stared into their eyes when she asked questions in a clipped accent which made each word stand up straight. She really wanted to hear their answers, and as each man replied, he stood a little taller, like her words, his muscles swelling a bit under his trim uniform.

“Thought she was in remission,” Blade said.

“Happened out of the blue,” Lang said.

“We just sent her our pic,” Caulder said, pursing his lips.

Mrs. Cosgrove had always asked about his latest score on the range and congratulated him on concentrating so single-mindedly. Not many people appreciated the thousands of hours which went into that split second of squeezing the trigger. He thought of her wasting away and his features puckered up like a little boy's, almost comical against the bulk of his shoulders.

“You going home too, sir?” Blade asked. “Knowing her and all.”

“I'm not family.”

“You almost are. The regs allow it.”

“Captain Cosgrove will keep me up to speed.”

“Well, you'll catch up with her after Christmas,” Caulder said.

Lang kept his eyes on his tray.

“You will,” Caulder repeated, holding a glass of orange juice close to his chest, as though he were cold.

“Who's filling in for Captain Cosgrove?” Blade asked. “They're not putting us under some squid, are they?”

Lang shrugged and they resumed eating. The silence lasted several minutes, until a corporal from Operations noticed them. He hesitated before slowly approaching their table. What if they already knew? Sergeant Caulder would chew on him. No, they wouldn't be just sitting there. Not the dogs. They'd be moving, doing something.

Blade looked up. “What's going on, Corporal?”

“I—I wasn't sure whether you all had heard—about Captain Cosgrove.”

Now they all looked up and the corporal knew he had made the right choice.

“He's missing on patrol.”

They were out the door in ten seconds, running toward the Operations Center.