The Crisis

by David Poyer

  He looked up to see a man so black he was like a hole in the light, wearing a pink straw hat, rubber flip-flops, and a lime green shirt, in his face with a camera. Behind him another camera strobed. A ripple of flashes alone the dune line above them made Caxi wince. He lurched to his feet facing a cameraman in blue flak jacket with a Fox logo. “Smile, Lance Corporal.” A lieutenant slapped his back. “Gonna be on TV, my man.”

  The line of marines in battle dress went prone as they skylined the tops of the dunes. Then looked confused as they were swarmed by hundreds of kids, long-legged adolescent boys, grave older men in headwraps. Spayer waddle-charged slowly up his sandhill, heart knocking from ephedrine, caffeine, and his first beach assault.

  Dozens of people milled at the red house. Kids pelted after a soccer ball. Women in saris waved from a balcony. A heavyset Indian in a tieless suit hurried over, hugging bottles of orange drink. “American? American! We prayed for you to come! Now we shall have peace, we are safe!” He shouted to the kids, who mustered into a ragged line at ragged attention. Veiled women advanced, dark eyes eloquent. They cupped filigree balls from which a blue smoke scented with lemon and sweet turpentine eddied. They circled the astonished fire team, waving fragrant haze toward them with hennaed palms as the children chanted, “Welcome to Ashaara! We are your friends!”

  “We drink this orange shit, Team Leader?” said the assistant automatic weapons gunner.

  “Take it and smile, but dump it when we’re out of sight. Stay tactical, jarheads. Eyes on the swivel, watch those rooftops.”

  Spayer took his team downhill. The map showed broken dunes between them and the crane cabs that loomed ahead. The helicopter went over again, banking left.

  “Raven Eight, Raven. Over.”

  He took a knee as he answered, reporting Raven Eight three hundred meters inland with no contact. They were exiting the dune line and in sight of the objective. As he spoke he caught the upperworks of one of the PCs gliding over the dunes, flying both the Stars and Stripes and the white, green, and black Ashaaran ensign. It was headed in to take a support station off the seawall, placing any hostiles between hammer and anvil.

  He rose and went on. They came to paths winding amid brush. The wind from the sea languished and a buzzing cloud rose. The marines slapped and cursed as the flies bit and returned in hooking reattacks, concentrating on lips and eyes. The dunes grew lower, the bushes higher as the team pushed inland. The SAW gunner had his weapon tucked under an arm, ready if they took fire. He and the rifleman were discussing in low serious voices whether Indian women could be considered slut possibilities. The sand paths were littered with broken glass, turds, crispy-looking dried condoms.

  Spayer was beginning to think this might be a walk-in. But then thought ambush and angrily gestured Fire and Assist into silence and vectored them farther to the right. This slid the two elements of the fire team forward parallel to each other but staggered by ten yards and separated by thirty. Closer than he liked, but he had to be able to signal to them above the brush. There were people all around, though he couldn’t see them; their shouts and gay cries rang clear. He hawked and spat flies that bit as they died. Poor as hell, ragged, close to starving—at least the blacks, though the Indians looked pretty well off. They all sounded happy to see Americans, though.

  He came around a bend in the trail and pivoted at a stir to the left. Then lowered his rifle. Just a piled-up nest of trash, crumpled boxes, wadded-up grass, greasy rags.

  He turned away, but something caught at his arm. He whipped back, ready to take the rifleman’s head off, only to see a small shaven head at the level of his belt. Gleaming black eyes above a big grin minus several teeth. The flies crawling around those eyes didn’t seem to disturb their owner. “B’jour,” the boy said.

  Spayer’s gaze traced a trail of cardboard to realize the boy had emerged from the trash pile, apparently a nest. “Hey, guy.”

  “Hey.” The grin grew. “Hey guy. V’ nom?”

  “What you trying to say, kid? Hey—where—”

  “Nabil,” the boy said, patting Spayer’s side. All he wore was a torn, dirt-blackened T-shirt that read “Bofalo Bills.” His legs were sticks. One foot dragged in the sand. His cheekbones were pushing through his skin. He’d been beaten recently; his face was bruised and cut to a degree that would’ve had an American kid in the emergency room for stitches. Spayer smelled strong by now, after the LCM, the heat, and the tension, but the boy’s stink cut through his own, a possum-in-the-garbage stench that sent an American nose into overload. Holding his breath, he felt in his pocket for the Planters Peanut Bar he’d stuck there before loading. Held it out, expecting it to be snatched.

  Instead Nabil—was that the kid’s name?—smiled up into Spayer’s face. He studied the colorful wrapper, the little peanut man with top hat and cane. Then tore it open, broke off a piece, and offered it back to Spayer.

  “We movin’, Team?” said Ready, looking at him quizzically. Spayer pushed the boy aside like a turnstile and advanced again, weaving through the rattling bushes, keeping his eyes roving. The radio was talking again, but not to him. He kept it low to hear the whisper and crackle of movement all around. Spooky, to be surrounded by civilians.

  If they were civilians. But he hadn’t seen anyone armed. They’d been warned to expect militia, but so far, nada. They were closing on the cranes. Beach recon showed a fence between the beach and the hard-stand. He patted his belt to make sure he still had snips, but hoped they’d find a gate. They were to secure the container port, not destroy it. M16s and grenade launchers were authorized, but no heavy weapons unless absolutely necessary to dislodge resistance.

  He glanced back, thinking the boy would’ve slipped away, but he was tagging along, exchanging that cheerful smile for the bemused regard of the scout-rifleman. One foot dragged as if the tendon had been cut, but he kept up, lurching and bobbing. He was carrying a bottle of orange drink. Fire looked abashed. “Sorry, dog. Couldn’t see just tossin’ it.”

  The scrub fell away; a parched, fallow field opened between them and stacks of rusty containers, motionless cranes. Close up the chain link was rusty too, and hung limp from its stanchions. Spayer studied it through a little pair of Kowas, making sure they weren’t walking into anything. Then pointed his guys out left and right. The radio buzzed and crackled. Raven, urging them forward.

  “MARINE terminal looks abandoned. Being secured,” a MEU staffer called.

  Dan yawned, checking the screens again. Still no hostile contacts. The amphibious op area was isolated. The road south to Uri’yah and north to Nakar, the intersection southwest of the city at Darew, and the abandoned camp of the Twenty-first Armored had all been occupied.

  The lead elements reported only one instance of resistance, a night tank battle northwest of Haramah, where lead elements of the Fifteenth MEU had clashed with fleeing elements of the Ashaaran Twenty-first Armored. The M1A1s had picked up the T-55s in their thermal sights and slaughtered them at long range. One-Five was across both bridges and digging in to defend.

  The lack of resistance was spooky. The country’s armed forces had evaporated like dew on a hot morning. The police barracks at Darew was an abandoned, smoking shell.

  He rubbed his eyes, trying to concentrate on whatever Ahearn had just asked him.

  THE cranes were smaller than Spayer had thought, seen from a mile away. One looked as if it hadn’t budged along its tracks in years. The PC lay in the basin, guns laid on an office building and a gate that led to the highway. The office’s windows were smashed out. Scraps of insulation, charred like overdone chitlings, lay littered around circuit boxes and motor housings where someone had mined out the copper wiring. Trucks had been stripped of tires, radios, doors, then set afire. A pusher boat lay sunken, stern protruding above the oily surface. The place was silent except for flies and a dog pack that loped yelping away as he led his team along the concrete apron. The heat was a thick fluid they had to force aside as they jogged along, gazes
jumping from one likely sniper position to the next. The wind stank of burning rubber, shit, rotting meat. Raven Six reported a body wedged between one of the fenders and the pier, apparently fallen from a crane.

  What kind of people would destroy the only port they could get food through? He didn’t get it, any more than he understood why there wasn’t anyone here to protect it.

  He and Fire were setting up the M249 atop one of the stacks of abandoned containers when a zzip penetrated the air and something jerked at his arm. He heard the crack of a shot. When he looked down his sleeve was torn.

  “Sniper, right two hundred,” the rifleman called. “Watch my tracer.”

  Spayer followed the burst to the paste-colored rooftops. Prone, he snarled into his radio, “Raven, Raven Eight; sniper fire from Old City. Returning fire.” The SAW chattered. He fitted a grenade into his launcher and aimed at an open window. Over the radio the lieutenant was coordinating other teams, sending them to clear the building. To secure the terminal, they’d have to clear the whole area. He triggered another grenade, the recoil pulpy against the layers of cloth and Kevlar cushioning his shoulder. The gunner fired out another magazine. Spayer finally told him to hold fire. “We’re just ratfucking, with nothing to aim at.”

  A helicopter beat overhead but saw nothing either. The city lay silent under black smoke from inland. Raven Four reported the house empty, the sniper gone. Spayer lowered his gaze to find the boy from the dunes dancing and singing at the foot of the container pile. Someone had given him a BDU cover. It was too big, but he wore it proudly. He danced harder when he saw them looking on. He shaded his eyes, squinting up. Smiling.

  “Hey, guy,” he called up.

  10

  In the Old City

  EVEN at midday the narrow alleyways and massive walls, angled to baffle and tame the sunlight, are bathed in shadow. The sky burns like white phosphorus above flat roofs, but its heat cannot penetrate. From above the city looks deserted, but hundreds of thousands carry on their lives all around the obscure walled house of mud brick in the northern part of the Old Town, home to the city’s poor.

  An old man sits in a windowless room. The scents of cumin and cinnamon enfold him like thin layer of precious tissue. Incense smoke curls from a brass holder that still, the young man notices, has a MADE IN INDIA sticker on the side. The old man’s sparse beard’s colorless against pitted skin. He wears dark-framed sunglasses, a turban, a white cotton robe. A sturdy hagarwood stick’s propped in a corner. When he extends a palm a veiled woman hands him a bowl. He holds it beneath his face and inhales, then raises sightless eyes.

  “They no longer oppress us. All praise to God, the Lord of the worlds.”

  Ghedi sits with long legs crossed at the ankles on a carpet so old and soft it feels like the secret skin of a woman. He and the two with him wait without speaking. A man of excess words is not respected. The old man pushes his fingers into his mouth, flicks away spittle. His gums pain him, but the old sheekh refuses to see Western-style dentists. That would be a betrayal of God’s will for his aging body, which he seems closer to abandoning each time Ghedi sees him. Ghedi feels only contempt for the weak, but the sheekh’s far from weak, frail though he appears.

  “How is it with the Waleeli?” Sheekh Nassir murmurs.

  The Waleeli—Brothers—follow Nassir’s vision of an Ashaara returned to the Word of God as set forth in the Holy Koran. Ghedi’s followed the old man since he grew old enough to leave the bandits. The fact he’s here, with these others, shows his value to his teacher. Or so he hopes.

  “Faithful to you and to the Word, respected Sheekh.” Mahdube bows, gaze averted from the master’s infirmity.

  Mahdube and Ikrane have been with Nassir for many years. Mahdube was his student when he taught at the madrassa, before the president closed it. He’s thin, with weak eyes, and wears thick glasses just like the old man’s. Ikrane’s from the old man’s clan, but Nassir says he loves him despite that, not because of it. Even when he was a simple imam, their master’s sermons belittled blind loyalty to clan. Nassir Irrir Zumali is an Issa, one of the roving tribes that from time immemorial lorded it over the desert. He doesn’t deny the genealogies, though he pokes fun at them, but he calls clan allegiance a colonial device to set those the Europeans want to exploit against each other.

  The three disciples wear Western-style trousers and shirts, but each shirt has black in it. They don’t wear beards, by the imam’s dispensation, so they can move freely and hear and report. Ghedi’s glad of this. He admits he’s vain, too proud of his handsomeness. All gifts are God’s, and in his prayers he’s offered Him his comeliness along with his life.

  “Tell me what you’ve seen.”

  Mahdube, the eldest, recounts in his high stilted voice the withdrawal of the police. They’ve walled themselves up in their clan neighborhoods. “The major now calls himself ‘General’ Assad. They don’t patrol, but stop and interrogate anyone who enters their neighborhoods. I’ve heard they’re short on fuel for trucks and ammunition for mortars. I sent two men in at night. Both were caught. The piebald dog returned their heads.”

  “The piebald dog” is a huge man with a frightening white face who serves as Assad’s bodyguard and executioner.

  “God’s blessing upon them, they dwell in Paradise. And your answer?”

  “Two heads from their men.”

  A silent nod, a lifted hand; then the sightless gaze turns to the next. Ikrane’s solidly built, with an impassive face and massive hands that move slowly, as if with great effort. Ghedi’s seen those big fingers tear the tongue from a man caught spying. “My loved brother. What of the clan elders?”

  “A Dr. Dobleh has returned. He’s lived overseas with the foreigners and speaks their languages.”

  “What clan is he? Muslim, or not? Tell all you know of him.”

  “Zumali Dobleh. A Gilhir, but it’s said his father was Tawahedo, a Christian. He grew up in Italy and speaks with their accent. The wealthy merchants, the Indians, the other exiles returning now that the Xaasha have lost power, all champion him.”

  “Such men are worms, glistening with the slime of the West. What are his plans, my strong brother?”

  “He says the United Nations will feed those in need, if all unite under a new government. It will set up a new police, a new army. It must control all revenue. It will educate women and outlaw sharia punishment.”

  The old man sits bowed. Finally he murmurs, “What of those who defend their clans?”

  “All militias must be disarmed.”

  “Including Assad’s criminals? The so-called governing council?”

  “All must surrender weapons to the occupiers. They will be given food and money. The roads will be rebuilt. We’ll have electricity again. This is what Dobleh and the Americans say.”

  The old man lifts his head. “Surely the elders will not collaborate. The president was evil. May God burn him in a fiery Hell for ten thousand years. But at least he was Ashaaran.”

  The large hands lift and fall. “My father, not all agree, but many listen. They meet at the palace soon for discussions. To talk of elections so this foreigner may become president. Is it God’s will he be killed? If it is, He has given me to know how to cause it to happen.”

  The old man works his fingers in his mouth before saying around them, softly, “Let us not speak of killing this one yet. But we cannot allow another evil ruler. And giving up weapons—no Ashaaran will like those orders. It may be time for the Waleeli to renew our country.”

  The three younger men sit pondering. Finally he stirs. “Ghedi, my youngest. Come sit by me. Tell me of our business dealings since the raid by the Assadites.”

  Since the police raid there’ve been no more shipments of weapons, but they have several hundred RPGs stockpiled, plus many grenades. He describes the attack he carried out in Malakat, at the police station. “Most had already left. The ones who remained seemed happy to be allowed to live.”

  “Their weapons?
”

  “I took them into the desert and buried them at a place only we know.”

  “No more ships with ammunition?”

  “The Americans stop the ships, but with what we have, praise God, there is enough.”

  The old man’s fingers tighten on his shoulder. “I know you do things for money that pain your heart. There will be reward in Heaven and perhaps too on Earth. Now tell me of the Americans. You have observed them, as I asked?”

  “Yes, revered Sheekh. They come in machines that float above the ground. Even the tanks of the Xaasha were helpless against them. At the port they are building machines to unload ships without the labor of men. They occupy the airfield, constructing many buildings. Large aircraft land there every day. They carry conveniences and special foods without which the Americans cannot live. Our water sickens them. They must drink from bottles sent from Turkey and Jewish Israel.”

  The old man sits for a time lost in thought. The rattle of drums comes from another room, and Ghedi wonders that he lets the woman play Western music. Who is she? The sheekh never refers to her or addresses her in their presence. Surely he’s too old to still desire women.

  Ghedi blinks, ashamed to consider such a thought. This man’s beyond lower things. They aren’t the only ones who bring information. This blind imam knows more than any other in the city. Without stirring from this room, he may be the most powerful man in Ashaara.

  Finally he speaks.

  “My young brothers. You are of different clans. But Islam has no clans. To speak of one’s family, when all Muslims are brothers, is to fall into a snare of Shaitan. What does the Devil want? For us to abandon God.

  “That is why the Waleeli opposed the northerners: they embraced foreign ways. Those who do so are not worthy to live.