by Ilsa J. Bick
“They must have treatments. They do for people.”
“Hunh.” A dismissive grunt. “Sometimes they give the dog a rest in theater. Doesn’t always work.”
“What happens if the dog can’t do its job anymore?”
“They send it back to Lackland. Sometimes, dogs can be retrained. If not, and a dog can be adopted out, they will, but a lot of these animals are really hardcore. Remember, these dogs are supposed to be aggressive. They’re bred to fight and bite, not become pets. So, if the handlers can’t find a home for a war dog”—Tompkins shrugged—“they kill him.”
“That’s messed up.” Dropping to her haunches, she ruffled the soft fur behind the dog’s ears, her fingers lingering over the ß826 tattooed on the inside of Six’s left ear. All military working dogs had a unique identifier tattoo indicating the animal’s whelp-series. Six’s tattoo, that ß, was different from many other MWDs because he’d been born in Germany. When he first came over, the dog only understood German commands which the dog still remembered and Tompkins sometimes used, especially if he thought any villagers might understand English.
“Yes, it is. Messed up, I mean. So, Kate, if something does go south with Six when we’re in the shit, do you think you could take over?”
“Of course I will. I’ll look out for him then and after.” But we’re not getting into any shit.
“Good. Or, you know, if you can’t keep Six long-term, his handler before me, Kujo—”
“Come on, his mom named her kid after a rabid dog?” She remembered that book. Always felt sorry for the poor dog.
Tompkins’s mouth kicked into a grin. “Naw, that’s Cujo with a C. This guy’s name is Joe Kuntz, with a K. Poor guy got wounded and then boarded out. Sucks, too, because he would have made a really good kennel master. In fact, I don’t know why he didn’t stay in and go that route. Anyway, he really loved this dog. He’ll take Six in a heartbeat.”
“You know where Kujo is?”
“Walter Reed, you know, for rehab and stuff, last I heard, but that was a while back. The Army’ll have him in their system, though. They’ll know where to find him.”
“Okay, but they won’t have to because you’ll still be around to be a major pain in the ass.”
“Never say never.” Dropping down beside his dog, Tompkins scrubbed the animal’s ruff until Six moaned. “I’ve been having bad dreams.”
Shit. “Nightmares?”
“I guess. Good dog, good boy,” he said, as his dog washed his face and neck. “Not about stuff that’s happened, though. It’s just I...I see myself. You know, dead. All torn up and everything, which isn’t supposed to happen. You ever see yourself dead?”
“In a dream? No.” I only see everybody else dead. That was her nightmare, not the soldiers who died straight out—their brains emptying from the back of their skulls, say—or even those she tagged for immediate medevac who she already knew were dead men walking. The theory was, if you could stabilize a soldier, you had that one golden hour to get him off the battlefield and onto a surgeon’s table. That often worked, but at what price? Hey, great save, good job...only now the guy’s got half a brain. Or no legs. Or no eyes and only one arm. The military had become so efficient at putting the save on soldiers, she sometimes wondered if she and other medics and doctors were doing them any favors.
“You’re just tired.” She stroked Six’s left flank. “We’re all tired.”
“Got that right. I just don’t understand what this has all been for. Tell me what good we’ve done. Did you really listen at the briefing? To the cap, growing poppies is no different from sowing corn or planting potatoes. There’s all this big talk about defeating the Taliban and shit, but we haven’t destroyed a single poppy field or cemented over their irrigation lines, but then we turn around and pay the Afghan Army for every field they trash. How screwed up is that?”
“Very.” Though she understood why. No one in this region could grow enough legal crops to support a family. The U.S. didn’t like that the farmers grew poppies, but since that was virtually the only cash crop, the U.S. preferred not to be seen as the bad guy. So they paid off the Afghan Army to do the dirty work.
“Right. And what about the kids? We don’t do anything for them. I’m not talking schools and hygiene and crap. Sorry, I know that’s important, but I’m talking the kids who get sold, you know? And we don’t do anything. We let it happen.”
“I know.” Everyone did. It was an open secret. There was big money in trafficking. Girls, yes, but more often young boys. Bacha bazi, or boy play, if you went for the literal translation. When the news people reported on this at all—which was seldom—they liked dancing boys. Catchier, she guessed, but it was child abuse, no matter which way you sliced it, and a lot of people, mainly powerful tribal leaders but also some government types, did it.
Yet another problem they would not solve.
“We should get back.” Pushing to a stand, she winced as her knees crackled. “I need to check my kit before we head out tomorrow morning.”
Tompkins snapped a lead to Six’s collar. “Hooah.”
They walked in silence for a time, their boots crunching over grit and gravel, the bowl of the night sky milky with stars and a bright thumbnail of moon. As they passed a wall of sandbags surrounding a water storage tank, she said, “Don’t worry, okay? I’ll watch out for Six. But nothing’s going to happen, you understand?”
“Thanks, Kate.” In the dim light, his eyes shone bright as a crow’s. “Listen, if things get really hairy... No, look.” He held up a hand when she began to protest. “Just let me say this, okay? It’s important.”
“Fine.” But I so do not want to hear this. Facing off, she folded her bare arms over her chest. With the sun gone, the temperature had dropped, but she didn’t think the goose bumps sandpapering her flesh were from only a chill. “What do you need to tell me?”
“Two words,” he said, “that could save your life.”
4
They started before dawn.
Despite all Prophet’s reassurances that there was absolutely no chatter of any kind, Jack opted for caution and put an up-armored Humvee on point just in case anyone decided to speed them on their way out of the province with a couple IEDs. Six and Tompkins could do a sweep for the same, but that would also mean slowing to a veritable crawl as the dog team cleared the way. Jack wanted them rolling into Cham Bacha as morning prayers ended and out after midday prayers but before salat al-'asr, the call to prayer in the late afternoon but before dusk. No one wanted to be caught out of the wire at night, if they could help it.
Their convoy of four Humvees—their up-armored metal coffin and two with turret-mounted .50s—had been on the road for an hour when they met up with the Afghans. A slight desert chill still laced the air and a slight silver smudge showed along the eastern horizon, which meant daylight coming and soon.
She was running on caffeine and nerves. Around three a.m., she’d finally given up on sleep, eased out of her cot so as not to disturb Duncan, and gathered up the gear she’d stowed before turning in. Then she wandered over to the KOP’s medical unit where she cleaned up and gulped back two cups of coffee. She would have preferred four, but the ride would be long and the problem with coffee was the same as beer: you only rented it.
On the way to the med unit, she passed the command center, which was all lit up. Jack was probably inside, if he’d been to bed at all. She lingered a second, thinking about it, then continued on. She was not giving into this whole superstitious last-mission jazz. There would be more than enough time to talk when this was all over.
Now, as they rumbled along, she felt the pulse of a headache from too little caffeine and not enough sleep. After the mission briefing and then her talk with Tompkins yesterday, one thought still nagged, too.
I might have made a mistake. Perhaps she really shouldn’t have encouraged these kids to learn to read and write. Maybe pushing these children to either walk to the nearest school or get their pa
rents to persuade an itinerant teacher to come to Cham Bacha was a really bad move. Still hadn’t stopped her from a last little act of defiance—her flipping the bird at the Taliban—and stuffing her backpack full of books, pens, paper, pencils. If Jack had searched her pack, he’d have had a heart attack.
Seriously, have I helped these kids at all, or just poked a stick into a hornet’s nest? It had never occurred to her this taboo about girls and education might not be easily broken. What parent didn’t want a better life for a child? Those were her values, though. Afghanistan’s reality was different.
Well, too late to take back anything she’d already said and done. Best thing she could do now was warn the kids not to push for too much too fast but have patience and bide their time. They were already cautious. Most of the older ones, like Fatimah—a ringleader and smart as a whip—knew the villagers, especially the very religious ones, would never tolerate a girl getting any kind of education. Fatimah was a schemer, though. Her older brother, Jawad, sometimes smuggled books he got from an itinerant teacher who made the rounds on his bicycle of neighboring villages. Only boys were allowed to receive the books he brought, but Jawad taught Fatimah on the sly. They’d even gathered together a little band of rebels, boys and girls: Sabera, Afar, Malik, Maia, Jalila... At least a dozen kids.
There was safety in numbers. Still, a little reminder never hurt. She’d make time to talk to as many of the kids as she could.
She tried to relax into the ride. Again, easier said than done. She and Tompkins were perched on a bench in the third vehicle. Six, on leash and sporting Doggles, snoozed between them on the Humvee’s flatbed. Normally, she didn’t mind hanging in an open flatbed, but she preferred someplace safe like, oh, Green Bay.
She also wouldn’t have minded riding in a different Humvee because, after the lead, the second most frequently targeted vehicle in any convoy was the one with the dog team. Which might explain why half the squad rode in the Humvee just in front of theirs. She’d have joined them, but Six couldn’t stand Pederson, the male doctor who’d choppered up from Leatherneck. Something about the guy made the dog nuts, and since the feelings appeared to be mutual, Kate figured she was screwed either way.
“And there they are.” Tompkins lifted his chin to point down the road as their vehicle rolled the vehicle to a stop. The dog, who was the most relaxed of them all at the moment, raised his massive head, yawned, did a full-body doggy stretch then planted his front paws on the bench to take in the view. In his clear, shatterproof Doggles, Six always reminded Kate of Snoopy chasing the Red Baron. Evidently, Six wasn’t impressed with the view because he yawned again, dropped onto the flatbed with a groan, and closed his eyes.
She actually agreed with the dog. The Afghans’ two rattle-bang trucks were just this side of being complete junkers. They were also filthy, with so much caked-on grime crusting their windshields she wondered how the drivers could see at all. At their approach, the Afghan policemen lounging on the flatbeds stirred and stretched and blinked to consciousness. In the Humvees’ headlights, they were a motley crew with mismatched uniforms and no real rank insignia she could see, or body armor. Okay, so you’ll just duck behind one of us. There was also no posted guard.
“And bang.” It was Sergeant Stone. “Your ass is dead.”
“Some police.” Tompkins wrinkled his nose. “They look like guys who wait around for construction work at the Wal-Mart.”
“Maybe they know there won’t be trouble.” She preferred to be hopeful. “Maybe, since they’re locals, nothing bad will go down.”
“They’re police, and Afghanistan is like the weather. Wait five minutes and everything changes. Just as well they stay out of our way. Wouldn’t want them watching my six. See the way they carry their weapons? Fingers inside the guards?” Stone grunted. “One of ’em flinches, say goodbye to your butt.”
A passenger side door on the lead truck opened with a long squeak. A compact man in an olive-green uniform with red epaulets—probably Major Gholam—clambered out to meet Jack. Trailing Gholam was a woman in a gray hijab, loose-fitting olive-green pants, and a matching knee-length tunic. She carried her rifle on a strap draped tight across her shoulders, right hand on the grip, right forefinger outside the trigger guard. In contrast to the men, she looked ready for battle. As their platoon’s interpreter, Aasif, a wiry man with a beaked nose, did the introductions and the men shook hands all around, the woman stood off to one side, her head always moving as she scanned the terrain.
“Lady must be your interpreter, Kate,” Tompkins said as Jack pointed the woman their way.
“At least she knows how to carry a rifle.” Stone pursed his lips. “How much you wanna bet she don’t have it safetied?”
“Hello, I am Officer Nagir.” Coming alongside the flatbed, the woman peered up from the depths of her hijab. She looked older than Kate, maybe in her early thirties, though the climate here aged a person fast. Still, she was relatively fair with light brown hair and an oval face. Nagir’s eyes, a lustrous hazel-gold, ticked to Kate. Reaching a hand, she smiled, revealing white, even teeth. “But, please, you should call me Bibi. I am to ride—”
In the blink of an eye, Six uncoiled, vaulting in one powerful surge onto the bench between Tompkins and Kate. The dog was so fast, he’d have catapulted from the vehicle if Tompkins hadn’t kept Six’s lead looped around his wrist. Now, the handler yanked the stout leather taut, and just in the nick of time.
“Oh!” Bibi blundered back, lost her grip, and went sprawling onto the road as Six barked furiously and scrambled to get at the woman, his nails scraping metal.
“Well, I guess that weapon’s safetied, all right,” Stone observed. “Good thing I didn’t take any bets.”
“Hey, hey!” Wrestling his dog back into the flatbed, Tompkins quickly wrapped the lead around Six’s snout as he fumbled a wire muzzle from a vest pocket. “Out! Out!”
Great. The dog had stopped barking, but then again, that was because with a leash around his jaws, he couldn’t. Six’s eyes rolled, the whites showing through his Doggles. What’s gotten into him?
As the dog continued to growl and thrash, all the Afghans watched. A few grinned, the assholes. Gholam’s face was a mask, and Aasif, the interpreter, was staying out of it. No one made a move to help or see if Bibi was okay. Jerks. Hell, it was probably taboo to touch her. What would happen if she were wounded? Or they were? Would they let Bibi throw on a tourniquet? Yeah, if it saves their butts. But return the favor? Probably not.
Only Jack had turned at the commotion and now, as he started their way, she waved him off. “We got it, sir.” That kind of attention, this poor woman didn’t need. Unhooking the gate, she jumped out of the Humvee and knelt beside Bibi. “Are you okay?”
“Yes.” Bibi let Kate help her up then brushed dirt from her trousers and tunic. “The only injury is to my dignity.” She adjusted her hijab and then grimaced as she whisked her palms. “Well, and my hands, but nothing a little wash will not cure. That is a very rude dog.”
She could hear Tompkins talking to the still-growling Six. “He doesn’t like strangers, which is, you know, kind of his job.”
“Then the feelings are mutual. A shame, too. He’s a beautiful animal, although these”—Bibi mimed a circle around an eye—“um...goggles? They make him look like a bug.”
“They’re called Doggles. They shield his eyes against sand and dirt. And, yeah, that dog can be a pill.” The prospect of Six barking nonstop for another hour also wasn’t appealing, and though this was nothing a muzzle couldn’t solve, there was also no harm in trying to smooth things over between Bibi and the dog. “Come on.” She cocked head toward the back. “Let’s introduce you, see if we can fix this.”
“How?” Bibi followed but slowly, a hand on her rifle, and when Kate climbed onto the flatbed, the other woman took a step back and gave a vehement shake of her head. “No, I cannot sit up there with that animal. It will… How do you say it? Have me for lunch.”
“Naw, not if she does her dog-whisperer thing.” Tompkins gave Six’s wire muzzle a final tug. “Don’t worry. Even if Kate can’t get Six eating out of your hand, there’s no way we’re going to let Six get a taste. Promise, you get to keep all your fingers.”
“Pardon me if I am not so reassured.” Bibi gave Six a shrewd look. “You, dog, you want to give me a nose job, yes? That’s what you want, don’t you, you brute? And this…dog whispering? What is this?”
“It’s just something I learned to do with Six that calms him down.” When Bibi still hesitated, Kate thought about it a second then leaned down and brought her lips to the other woman’s left ear. “Listen, they’re watching. They’re waiting for you to screw up. I’ll bet they think you don’t have what it takes. Now, are you going to prove them right, or are you going to shove it up their ass?”
Bibi raked a gaze over Kate before glancing back down the road toward the still-smirking policemen. When she looked back, her hazel eyes had hardened to gold glisters.
“All right.” Boosting herself onto the flatbed, Bibi squared her shoulders. “Let us whisper, dog.” She grinned at Kate. “And shove it up their ass.”
5
Ninety minutes later:
Tail high, Six snuffled along the ground, meandering right and left across a fallow poppy field laced with irrigation ditches. At every step, both dog and handler raised small clouds of light dust that scented the air with a salty, bitter aroma which settled into Kate’s mouth and onto her tongue. Grit gathered in the sweaty creases of her neck. She bet she could duck under a shower, fully clothed—stand there for hours as the water thundered down—and still not wash off all this desert.
About fifteen feet behind and flanking Tompkins were Stone and Lowry. The rest of them followed in a relatively tight formation on a narrow path across wide, open farmland. In March of this coming year, the barren fields they now crossed would be filled with lush, five-foot-high plants sporting purple and pink blossoms. By April, these flowers would fall away, leaving behind the swollen immature pods that farmers then would score to allow the milky latex to leak out. After this dried, the residue would be scraped from the plant to produce first morphine and, finally, heroin.
