by Weston Ochse
Starling stood with Lore, Narco, and McQueen. They wore classic contractor apparel: Merrell shoes, cargo pants, tucked in polo shirts, and thin jackets. Each of them held a small pack in their left hand. Starling had a water bottle, as did Narco. McQueen held a GQ magazine he’d dive into once he got on—if he got on. And Lore grabbed a Brian Keene novel from the store’s racks, something called The Complex.
It was getting toward the end of boarding when a tech sergeant approached them and gave them documents to get on the plane. They all looked at each other with collective relief and boarded. A C5 Galaxy was exactly like a civilian aircraft on the inside—if the civilian aircraft had all the seats facing backwards, no windows, and no flight attendants, only grumpy loadmasters and airmen. Because the plane was almost full, they had to find seats where they could. Narco and Lore found seats where they sat alone. Starling and McQueen found a pair next to each other. C5 passenger seats were larger than civilian seats, so as Starling settled in, he let out a sigh.
Right before they closed boarding, the family of six made it on. Everyone was forced to sit by themselves, but a couple of young uniformed officers found a way for the two younger kids to sit near their mother.
Starling didn’t notice much after that. The stress of the last seventy-two hours, especially the constant feeling that they’d be found out during the last twenty-four, had weighed on him. He was soon asleep, where he dreamed of a dark, wet place. He couldn’t see very well, but he knew he was somewhere underground. Multiple sounds of breathing told him he wasn’t alone. But try as he might, he couldn’t get his eyes to open more than slits. The only other sound beyond the breathing and the occasional drip of water was an electrical buzzing, like an old light bulb but louder, and somehow it existed as something sentient. He tried to turn to the sound, but he couldn’t move, frozen in a dream fist that held him tight and rigid.
Then came another sound that his mind immediately processed and recognized. The bleat of a goat. His whole body shook with the noise, muscles vibrating, skin on fire, bones resonating. Then it came again. His body rattled, almost exploding with the energy of the bleat. And with this came a shift of view.
Now Starling saw something new, something that glowed and somehow rested in midair. He tried to process the shape, but without the whole, it was an impossible feat, like trying to imagine the universe by seeing only a single star. Yet his mind somehow resolved the shape and labeled it as a thigh… a human thigh. But that was impossible. How could a thigh glow and float of its own accord?
The bleat came again, shaking his universe until he felt like his very bones would fly out of his skin. Then he was attacked. He fought madly, suddenly able to move, clawing, scratching, but something held him with more power than he possessed.
“Easy, man. Wake up. Be cool.” The words came in sharp staccato whispers.
Starling kept trying to fight, but he was unable to move his arms.
“Open your damned eyes.”
The goat bleated once more, shattering galaxies.
His eyes snapped open.
McQueen held him by the wrists, the bigger man’s forearm and triceps muscles bulging.
Several people near them were staring.
McQueen hissed at them, “Haven’t you ever deployed before?”
They all turned away.
Starling’s mouth was so dry he had difficulty speaking. “Sorry.” He pulled at his hands and McQueen let go. “It was a dream.”
“Some dream.”
Even as he tried to summon what it had been, reinvent what he’d seen, it was gone.
“You were bleating like a damned goat,” McQueen said.
He did remember the goat. “That was me? I thought it was…” He rubbed the side of his face. “Damn. I’ll be glad when this is all done.” He looked around the darkened cabin. “Where are we?”
“Somewhere over the middle of America.” McQueen placed a small box on his lap along with a water bottle. “Here. You missed dinner.”
“Oh, joy. What is it?”
“Bologna sandwich, carrots, and yogurt.”
Hunger was the last thing on Starling’s mind.
“Thanks,” he said.
He let the food and water rest on his lap and closed his eyes. He tried to will his dream to return to the glowing thing… yes, the glowing thing in the dark place. He needed to know what it was. A certain desperation had grown within him that begged to know. But try as he might, the dream eluded him. Instead of a dark place, he found himself in a place so bright it was almost blinding—the Middle Eastern sun so reflective it hurt to stare without good sunglasses. And there he was again, in Iraq in 2009 when he’d seen his first body, or part of one… a foot inside of a shoe that had been sheared off mid-calf by the power of a roadside bomb. It rested on the ground next to what turned out to be the boy’s father, who’d been at work when the child had been killed. Neighbors had run to him with the news and he’d come home to find the only piece of his son that he recognized. Through the terp, Starling had learned that the shoes had been the boy’s dream for two years. He’d gone by the same shop, staring in the window, aching for the shoes. He’d begged his father to buy them for him. The kid promised that they would make him run faster than any shoes out there. He’d be the fastest on the football pitch and be able to outrun a jihadi’s bullet. As it turned out, the shoes had made him fast.
But fast as he was, the eleven-year-old could not outrun the hatred embodied by a hollow metal gas tank filled with projectiles and explosives.
The shoe was bright orange and white and looked like it had just been sitting on a shelf in a store, not lying on the side of a dusty Iraqi road with the foot and soul of a child snug within it. Starling even remembered the brand, the word Paralitefoot emblazed across the heel. Starling had had his own dreams of summer running, but he came from a world where there were fireflies instead of firefights… a place where there were grassy parks instead of empty fields filled with land mines… a place where the worst that could happen was being a latch-key kid instead of having one or both parents dead, killed by the ambivalence of a well-placed bomb.
When Starling eventually woke, tears had dried at the corners of his eyes.
In the darkened cabin, he chewed slowly on his bologna sandwich. Then he rushed to the bathroom, where the contents of his stomach came up. He vomited with his eyes closed, hoping this time he’d lose the memory of the bloody stump of the boy’s foot, lonely and dead on the killing fields of the Middle East.
Chapter Fifteen
Al Udied Air Force Base, Doha, Qatar
TWO MORE PLANES and ten thousand miles later, they found themselves in the blast furnace known as Doha. Criminal was waiting for them on the tarmac. He was leaning against a white double cab Toyota Hilux, an infectious grin on his face, a Raiders cap on his head. With the C130’s ramp lowered, the passengers filed around the two cargo pallets and into the white-hot heat of Qatar.
After an exchange of pleasantries, they got in the truck and Criminal drove them away. Thirty minutes later, they pulled into a fenced area with the words HUMANTECH displayed everywhere. Several other SUVs were present, but no one was outside. Nor would they be in the 109 degree heat.
Finally inside the air conditioned trailer Criminal used as an office, he handed them ID cards with their actual names and corresponding contracts and movement orders—everything they’d need to get into Afghanistan and stay awhile. He took their fake IDs, placed them in an envelope, and jammed it in the back of a filing cabinet.
Besides Criminal’s desk, there were two more desks. The walls were covered with HUMANTECH recruiting posters, to include one shot of the TST—geared up propagandist gun porn designed to attract recently retired operators back into the fold.
“Where are yours?” Boy Scout asked after they destroyed the first set of docs.
“My what?” Criminal sat in the office, feet up on his desk.
“Your orders. You’re coming with us, you know,”
Boy Scout said flatly.
Criminal shook his head. “Don’t think so. I have a job here.”
“This is more than just a job, Oz,” Lore began.
But Criminal cut her off by rolling his eyes and saying, “You’re chasing a dream… a dream you can’t catch.”
“Who said we can’t catch it… figure this out?” Boy Scout challenged.
Criminal laughed. “Look at you. The four of you. All serious and shit about figuring out what a girl and a goat are doing in your dreams. It probably means nothing and you know that.”
“We don’t know that,” Narco said. “Listen, man. I didn’t want to come either, but what Boy Scout is saying is right. We need to track this down. We need to figure this out.” Seeing Oz’s eyes roll, he added, “And don’t go telling me you don’t feel like you left something behind… something undone.”
Criminal put his feet on the floor and leaned forward, one elbow on the desk, his other hand pointing at the group. “Sure I feel it. So what? I also feel like I should have dated Sissy Jenkins in high school. I feel like I shouldn’t have entered that building in Fallujah and I wouldn’t have been shot. I also feel like I’ve bent over double to help you guys and I’d appreciate a little fucking thank you.”
“Okay,” Boy Scout said. “Thank you. Feel better?”
Criminal waved his hand and sat back heavily. “Fuck off. You want to go so badly, there’s a bird leaving this afternoon and you have seats on it.”
“But Oz, you’re part of the team,” Lore said. “You can’t just stay here.”
“Watch me.”
“We could use you, Criminal,” McQueen said.
“There’s plenty out there like me. Maybe not as good or as handsome, but plenty. I’m sure if you need a fifth you can find someone dumb enough to go back.”
“You’re scared,” Lore said, the words coming out as she thought them.
Criminal’s head snapped around. “You don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“I know scared when I see it,” she said.
“Whatever you say, Preacher’s Daughter.” He shook his head. “Whatever you say.”
“So that’s it.” Boy Scout glared at him. “You’re really not coming.”
“Nope. I’m staying right here in Doha where I can collect hazard pay without any of the hazard.”
“And that’s your final say?” Boy Scout asked.
“That’s my final say.”
Boy Scout and Criminal locked eyes for a full thirty seconds.
McQueen broke the contact by grabbing Boy Scout by the shoulder. “Come on. Let’s go and get kitted out. They’re not going to let us on a bird without body armor and some weapons.”
Boy Scout felt like he had to say something else, but he just couldn’t think of anything more. He’d had the feeling that everyone was on board, that everyone wanted to find out what was going on inside their heads, but apparently that feeling wasn’t shared by Criminal. Boy Scout didn’t make a face. He didn’t shake his head. He merely looked at McQueen and said, “You’re right. Lore, Narco. You want to join us?”
Lore said, “Right behind you.”
Narco said, “Gimme a moment. I’ll be there.”
Boy Scout turned and left the trailer. He walked across the parking lot to another trailer, this one with bars on the windows. He opened the door and saw an older woman sitting behind a desk that was three feet inside the door and situated so that to get into the rest of the trailer, one had to pass the desk. She had steely gray hair and wore a strand of pearls around her neck. She had on the same contractor clothes they did, except her polo shirt had the words HUMANTECH over her left breast.
“Afternoon, Nancy,” he said.
“Good afternoon, Mr. Starling.”
“Can’t say I’m surprised to see you here.”
“You know I haven’t rotated back home in six years.”
Boy Scout shook his head. Nancy Coon was nearly seventy years old and was everyone’s stand-in mother. She’d spent her first two years paying off debt she’d discovered her deceased husband had racked up. One it was paid off, she realized she hadn’t really missed anything back in America that she couldn’t get here on the air force base. She’d then decided to buy a house and pay it down so that by the time she did rotate back, it would be hers, free and clear.
“How much longer until you pay off the house?”
“I paid that off a few months ago.”
“Then why are you still here, Nancy?”
“I need a new car. Been thinking about an Acura, or maybe a Lexus.”
“You’re never going to leave here, are you?”
Instead of answering, she pointed to a form on the desk. “I need you to sign here. We have body armor, a Sig Sauer P229, and an HK 416 ready for you. Not sure how much ammo you want, but make sure you log it before you leave.”
“Yes ma’am.” He signed the form, then stepped to the back of the trailer and started to put on his gear.
McQueen and Lore came next.
Finally, Narco entered the trailer.
Boy Scout looked over to where Narco stood, ready to sign his own form. When they made eye contact, Narco shook his head.
Boy Scout returned to adjusting his body armor. Because of his added weight, he had to work the straps to get it to fit. He’d hoped that Narco would be able to convince Criminal to join them. The two were alike in so many ways, but it looked like that had failed.
Narco said a few words to Nancy, then joined them in the back.
Nancy disappeared for ten minutes. When she returned, Criminal was on her heels. When she got to the desk, she sat down, pulled out a piece of paper, and he quickly bent down to sign it.
Then he joined the four members of the TST and began putting on his own gear.
“I thought you weren’t coming,” Lore said.
“I don’t want to talk about it.” Criminal snapped on his body armor, then said, without looking at anyone, “I’ll be with you for one week. If we don’t figure this out in one week, you’ll have to do it without me.”
“I understand,” Boy Scout said.
On the way out, he stopped at Nancy’s desk.
“Can I help you?” she asked.
“Looks like Oz is joining us.”
She beamed at Boy Scout. “Isn’t that nice. The team’s now back together.”
Boy Scout nodded. He wanted to talk more, but there was something predatory about that smile. Something behind the happiness that promised to snap and bite. He was convinced she’d said something to Criminal, but she’d never tell him what it was and Boy Scout couldn’t ask.
“Well, you take care, Nancy.”
“I will, Mr. Starling. You take care, too.” She beamed another smile. “And make sure you get Oz back to me safe and sound.”
Boy Scout tipped an invisible hat. “WILCO, ma’am.”
Chapter Sixteen
Kabul, Afghanistan
BOY SCOUT BELIEVED that if a country were to have a national car, Afghanistan would have the Toyota Corolla. They were so omnipresent one could stand in the center of Massoud Circle and see nothing but Corollas for several minutes before a pickup truck carrying eggs from the hinterlands or a motor scooter carrying boxes drove by. What was funny was that many of those cars had originated in America and Canada. He could tell this because he’d seen bumper stickers that read Obama ’08 or My Great Dane is Smarter Than Your Honor Student or My Kid Is in the Honor Roll at Tyner Junior High. What usually brought a smile to his face was when he saw a Corolla with a Jesus Saves bumper sticker. The irony of the driver not knowing what it meant but still having it on his car wasn’t lost on Boy Scout. If it wasn’t for the Toyota Land Cruisers and Chevrolet Suburbans used by NATO and NGOs, one could’ve designated Afghanistan as the Land of the Corolla, arguing with a certain amount of credibility that a silhouette of the vehicle should appear on the national flag instead of a mosque.
Here the Corollas were interspersed with the oc
casional green pickup belonging to the Afghan National Army, whose members openly carried their machine guns, often brandishing them to help get through traffic, even though no one really paid them much attention. When Boy Scout had first come to Afghanistan, the ANA soldiers worried him, possible perpetrators of what NATO called Green on Blue Attacks—an ANA soldier killing an American soldier—that had happened with alarming regularity just a few years ago. But he soon learned that these were less a danger than the faux police cars and trucks. Often owned by a local warlord, these usually high-end vehicles had sirens and lights to assist them getting through roads designed to serve several hundred thousand in a city with closer to four million people. These men often wore face masks and body armor and were known to pop off at NATO SUVs with a round or two just to impress their warlords.
But neither Jesus Saves Corollas, green ANA pickups loaded with soldiers, or Afghan gangbangers in their warlords’ rides impacted the usual TST mission. That’s because they had one hard fast rule when moving through the city. Never stop... which was a rule they were often forced to break with stupefying regularity. Gridlock was the norm, especially at the city’s natural chokepoints.
Boy Scout had been in country less than a week when he’d encountered his first incident. They’d been in a three-vehicle convoy, pretty much like they always were. Boy Scout and Preacher’s Daughter were in the middle vehicle with the package—a pair of civilians from the Defense Intelligence Agency. While each of the civilians had their own weapons, they’d been ordered to keep them holstered. The last thing Boy Scout needed was for two barely trained civies to get in the way of his team in the event of a firefight. Both of the civies had acquiesced, understanding that if something happened, their best chance at living rested with the six men and women of the TST who’d been trained specifically to keep them alive.
