by David Poyer
HALF an hour later the first line went over. He leaned from the wing to sweep his gaze the length of the terminal. Sunken wrecks had been cleared, old cranes torched apart and trucked off, markings repainted, cracked concrete patched. Kirzen snugged her hull against new rubber Yokohama fenders. Gulls shrieked and wheeled. The Sri Lankans stared at contract line handlers, clothed in new dungarees and hard hats emblazoned with Falcon Football decals, Buntine’s favorite team.
There was the harbormaster: boots braced wide, cheeks scorched scarlet, mouth open as he bellowed commands and imprecations alternately at the hustling line handlers and into the radio he carried like a loaded pistol. The stern line went over and was manhandled to a bollard. Dan checked the wind. It hadn’t shifted. He complimented the skipper, then looked for the pilot.
The Ashaaran was necking an icy-looking bottle of lemon pop, but lowered it as Dan came alongside. “America happy?”
“Molto bene, signore. But in case of bad visibility, you need to learn to read your electronic navigation.”
The man shrugged. “Bad weather, do not go into South Channel. Anchor out and wait.” A pale palm. “Bonus?”
Dan gave him a twenty-dollar bill. It all helped stimulate the economy. If they got that restarted, and the rains came, the country might recover. Buntine was right, the outside world couldn’t feed them forever.
But at least they could for now. He stopped in the grimy passageway, hot and smoky as a burning building, and rubbed his face. Tired as he was, he couldn’t help smiling.
THE mood on the apron was “party.” Behind fluttering yellow plastic DO NOT CROSS barriers waited factotums of the Relief Committee, one of the ad hoc bodies the exiles had stapled together. Here and there stood the marines and soldiers who’d cleared the basin and put the terminal back in shape. Generators hammered. Video lenses sparkled. A hand-painted banner rippled between brand-new light standards: WELCOME FIRST WORLD FOOD AID SHIP TO DOCK AT ASHAARA, with translations beneath in French, Italian, and Ashaari script.
A beeping of heavy equipment, and a boom truck fitted a brow into place. Dan followed the pilot and a World Food Aid representative onto the diesel-smelling concrete as a huge new Japanese-donated crane rumbled into position. Guided by a marine wielding batons, a truck rolled into position beneath a huge square steel funnel framed by bright green I-beams. Buntine screamed into the radio. The yellow tape fluttered down as the crowd broke across the apron. Photographers and video crews fanned out like machine gunners seeking enfilade.
It took a good deal longer than the waiting dignitaries must have expected, but at last a clamshell dipped into the hold, deliberated, then rose again, trailing a veil of smoky chaff. It swung through the bright air, hesitated again, then descended.
A rattling roar resounded as a pale cascade plunged into the truck, briefly visible between funnel and bed. The wind brought the smell of starchy rice. The Ashaarans cheered, the younger ones breaking into a high-stepping dance. Dan shook hands with Buntine, who reluctantly extended a palm the size and texture of a boot sole. “How’d that fucking skinny pilot do?” the harbormaster grunted. “D’jou have to take the conn?”
“He’s old-school. Never looked at the radar. Good work, Parker. And just in time.”
“Damn slow way to offload.”
“Better than labor gangs and burlap sacks.”
“I want as few skinnies inside my gates as I can run this place with.”
“I’d rather see us replaced by locals, Parker. As soon as possible, actually.”
“Already had three of those suits over there ask for office jobs. Told ’em we didn’t need ’em. We won’t need much sweat labor, either, Commander. A couple boys to sweep up, but once we get those vacuators running we can suck the bulk out onto conveyor belts. Load four trucks at once. Cut turnaround to six hours.”
Dan didn’t like how he dismissed local involvement in what after all was the Ashaarans’ terminal, but put it aside for now. Buntine groused that the military 6×6s were low capacity. If he had commercial tractor trailers he could move thirty tons out at a time. Had anyone load-tested the Victory Bridge, the two bridges across the Durmani, the bridges in the Western Mountains? Could the Coast Guard dredge the South Channel? And a higher light on the jetty might keep somebody from bashing into it some night. . . . Dan entered everything in his PDA, not trusting his memory. Across the apron three marines, part of the security detail, were talking to a TV crew.
SPAYER stood bemused as the woman spoke. New Zealand, she’d said. He could barely understand her. He stared at her chest. Attractive brunettes in boots, camo-fashion cargo pants, and vests were thin on the ground. Flanking him, Ready and Fire stood with weapons dangling off assault slings, staring at the same two points of interest like cats at a half-opened tuna can.
“Did you hear me, Sergeant?”
“What’s the question? And it’s lance corporal, ma’am.”
“What d’you enjoy most about being in Ashaara?”
“Uh, having the chance to, uh, help people achieve dignity and freedom.”
He watched the disappointment tremor her upper lip like a wind across a flawless pond. She was the most beautiful woman he’d ever seen.
“And that you enjoy least?”
“Not being able to take you out for a beer.”
A too-high laugh, a quick turn away. The lens followed her. Then it paused in its swing as she furiously gestured. “And just who is this wee larrikin?”
Spayer looked down. “Why, our good friend and guide, Nabil.”
“Nabil, eh?” Squatting, the reporter smiled into his entranced face. “What’re you doing running about with these big chaps?”
“My main men.”
“Where’d you find him? He’s a love.” To the cameraman: “ Extreme close-up.”
“He’s our number five Raven Eight fire team member. Joined the day we hit the beach, hasn’t left since.” Spayer squatted to the boy’s level. Kid smelled a lot better than that first day. Not as great as she did, though. He smiled hopefully but she was motioning to the cameraman, who was aiming at a stiffly-at-attention, saluting Nabil, the green plastic of an MRE peeking out from under his arm. “Position left, wide angle, get that ship in the background. Get the wheat or whatever muck it is coming off. Another close-up. Look at those cheeks! This ankle biter’s going to get us airtime.”
THE crowds lined the streets of the Old City as the six-bys snorted uphill, negotiated a hairpin turn at the remains of the Portuguese fort, and headed north. Dan clung to the running board as above, from the open window, Dr. Zumali Dobleh’s round foolish-looking face beamed out, acknowledging the cheers with wide smile and lifted hands. A SAW gunner scanned the crowd; other marines rolled a few yards ahead in a Humvee, rifle barrels tilted skyward.
It was like rolling through Sicily with Patton. Future convoys would avoid these narrow streets, circling the Old City via the autoroute before laboring west or north or south under their precious cargoes. But Dobleh had insisted the first shipment thread through the most heavily populated neighborhoods, showing food was on its way, at the same time associating the ADA with its providers. Maybe he wasn’t as dumb as he looked. . . . Smiling faces, waving scarves . . . people were dancing, it was like Christmas and New Year’s and beating Army all wrapped together. Women were throwing flowers, they were raining out of the sky. Where did they get flowers? He caught one and realized: they were plastic, made of colorful qat bags and wire.
The trucks descended into a saddle, then climbed between half-built, abandoned factories, tractor sheds, dusty dead fields. To either side stretched shoals of trash. Children pelted alongside, feet flashing, shrieking “Pay Day! Pay Day!” They rolled to a halt at the roundabout that led to the Seventeenth Division’s former encampment, now rebuilt as a transfer point. After a parting word with Dobleh, Dan swung down into a Humvee. It peeled off and headed west, jolting as the asphalt of the autostrada ended abruptly, returning to rockstudded dirt.
“YOUR basic escort mission. Ten-truck convoy. Take two other fire teams. Order of march: Humvee in the lead, one in the middle, a tail end charlie. Make sure everyone sees your flag and you won’t have any trouble,” the sergeant had told him. “A phrog saw a couple technicals, but the Three Shop says the locals are friendly. No checkpoints observed. Remote possibility of Sudanese raiding across the border. Pansy ass. Milk run.” Sure, okay, Spayer’d thought. Not the most challenging tasking, but a chance to see more than the beach, the terminal, and the airfield.
He sat in the lead truck, dipping Copie and trading in-country stories with the driver from the 100th Light-Medium as they clattered over a riverbed that was only mud and scattered mocha pools. Engineers waved them on over a creaking steel bridge that looked like it should’ve been torn down a long time ago. The driver was another WWF fan, and it turned out they’d both seen the last Tag Team Championship, Spayer on ESPN aboard ship in the Gulf, his new bud actually there, at the New Orleans Arena. Bitching about the Dudleys got them to the roundabout. The driver said they were setting up a big camp near there for skinnies streaming in from the delta. From Eritrea too, the drought was bad there too.
On the way to Darew white flashed ahead in the dust. A pickup, turning off the MSR onto a side trail that climbed parched hills. A technical? “That Assad could be one bad dude,” the driver said, as if hearing Spayer’s thoughts. “Him and his Governor’s Council.”
“Who’re our skinnies?” He twisted to look back. They wore cutoff jeans, cheap printed T-shirts, and not one item of military issue. They perched on the canvas top as if riding a desert-tan elephant. Thin legs, bare feet like sofa cushions splayed out so that from his angle everything was visible; skivvies optional. The AKs hanging from their necks needed muzzle discipline. He got grins and waves when they saw him looking. He forced a half salute.
“Those are ADs. No idea what clan.”
“What’s an AD?”
“Fuck if I know, but they’re s’posed to be our dudes.”
“You figured out the difference?”
“Government used to be northerners. These are southerners. Hooray for Dixie.”
Caxi doubted it was that simple, but even if the pickup had turned off, they’d better get tactical. He should call Fire on the intersquad and pull the convoy over. Climb into the lead Humvee and man up the sixty. But he put it off a few minutes, waiting for a better stretch. The road they were on now shook them like a cement mixer on high—you had to clench your jaw or chip a tooth.
A slap on his leg, teeth shining up. “Doin’ okay, Big Team?”
“Doin’ just great, Little Team.” He gave the round stubbly head a quick rub. The kid beamed back another of those Energizer smiles that never failed to make Caxi’s day.
After tagging along that first morning the kid had never been more than twenty yards away. He ate with them, tossed the blue foam Nerf football Assist carried stuffed in his battle rattle, and went along on perimeter. He picked up Marine Corps English at a dozen words a day, but faded whenever an O—an officer—got close, joining the gaggle of kids who came to gawk wherever they went. They’d gotten him a boot haircut and a shower. He ate everything and asked for more, and Spayer could swear he’d grown an inch since he’d joined up. The corpsman had treated his eyes, cuts, and diarrhea, though the dragging foot was beyond him. The ragged T-shirt, his only possession when they found him, Ready had soaked in lighter fluid and burned on the end of his bayonet. Nabil slept under Spayer’s bunk in the choo at the terminal. Every troop who saw the kid had to get his picture taken with him, and one of the guys at company said he’d put his photo on the company blog.
“Let’s have another MRE,” the kid said, lying on his belly, feeling under the seat.
“Not now, Little Team. Big Team’s gotta stay sharp. Hang loose and enjoy the view, ooh-rah?”
“Ooh-rah,” Nabil said, already incisoring open the green plastic as his eyes darted across a ragged copy of Maxim to the road. The pages were open to Angelina Jolie as Lara Croft. Spayer wondered what a ten-year-old Ashaari orphan made of Angelina with nipples erect in a wifebeater T, cuntcrack shorts, and her trademark nine-millimeter Heckler & Kochs. “Ratfuck me the coffee out of that, Little Team,” he said, and without taking his eyes off the picture the boy flipped the envelope his way.
The instant crunched between his teeth like sand. The rising wind buffeted the armament carrier ahead nearly off the road. Something big and dark ahead. “What the hell are those?” he asked. The driver shrugged.
Nabil studied them through the glass. Finally he said through a full mouth, “Those are the mountains, Big Team.”
When Caxi looked back up the ADs were pointing their weapons at each other, giggling and kickboxing with those big bare feet. He started to yell, then pulled his head back in. If they shot each other, maybe it’d teach ’em a lesson.
DAN had lunch at the airfield. Each time he arrived another steel building had gone up, another line of tents, a new messing facility. Fencing sketch-lined away into the desert, cutting across untended fields. Gunfire snapped from a rifle range as he ate penne pasta with chicken, pine nuts, and tomato sauce, fried squash, and only slightly wilted Caesar salad, watching television with a tableful of contractors, troops, aid workers, and flight crews.
He was discussing the load capacity of Globemasters with a twenty-year-old loadmaster from the Eighth Airlift Squadron when a familiar shape caught his eye on the screen. For a moment he felt disoriented, before he recognized the pale green angles of the new cranes. A truck moved into the picture; a zoom shot centered a Niagara of hulled rice. “Look at that,” he said. “We made the news.”
The puckish face of a small boy filled the screen, the clamshell of the crane trailing rice behind him. The boy’s eyes crinkled. He glanced up at a tall marine and saluted as the table erupted. Dan grinned too. So perfect it was parody. “The phones are ringing,” one of the aid workers said. “Want this cookie? Oatmeal raisin.”
“Sure,” Dan said.
Outside the heat pressed down as he waited for a scoop loader with a Seabee logo to pass, then wended his way into a wilderness of modulars behind the terminal. Air conditioners whined beneath the rumble of arriving aircraft. Out of nowhere he remembered another airfield, another country, the chill nights of Bosnia. A dark-haired woman who’d called him droozhe. Friend.
But she’d died, shot at the order of a man who, last Dan had heard, was still barhopping in Belgrade.
He pushed that back, trying to recapture the morning’s elation. He squeegeed his forehead and dragged off his cap as a door closed and cold air icepicked his sinuses. McCall looked up from a notebook from which a blue cable snaked. “LAN’s up. Your password and user name’s taped on the back of your monitor.”
“Good job.” He looked over her shoulder at the screen logo of a private company building an optimal routing system for aid deliveries. He’d asked her to validate their model, which it claimed had worked in Nepal. He wasn’t enthusiastic about private contractors, but this one, staffed by former aid workers, had ideas like using local haulers from centralized distribution points, so cash went to locals rather than foreign contract movers, and involving the host country’s tax officials in food allocation, so people associated paying taxes with getting a benefit.
He logged in and they sat back to back carrying on a sporadic conversation, mainly about the mechanics of routing downstream of the offload points. He checked his various sites and mailboxes, marveling at how many places the virtual Daniel V. Lenson resided. He was at TAG, he was still attached to Contardi’s Transformational Task Force, he was getting mail from both CTG 156.4 and CJCS, Task Force Red Sea. The bulk of his traffic, though, carried the subject line COLLATERAL GRATITUDE. Certainly one was less isolated in the Web age than when naval message had been the only link to shore, but he couldn’t say his level of global understanding was higher. Most of the time he was so far down in the weeds he had to look up at a centipede’s bel
ly.
Her computer chimed. “Mail,” she said, clicking the icon while he admired the back of her neck. The Japanese thought the nape peculiarly erotic. He could buy into that.
“It’s General Ahearn.” She turned to catch him examining her and he dropped his eyes, clearing his throat. What did that look mean?
“Uh, what’s he want?”
“Pin a medal on you, I think. No—I’m joking. He wants a brief on distribution. Sixteen hundred. Nicht PowerPoint.”
“Got it,” Dan said, back at the screen. He could update the daily logistics sitsum and be reasonably ready, he hoped, for any question the task force commander could throw. “Oh, just remembered. Got any bridge-inspection results?”
“Saw an Army message on that. Here it is . . . coming your way.”
The information age. He had to love it. He only hoped all this data he was transmitting, reading, summarizing, had some vague resemblance to the reality, out there where the dust met the sky.
THE convoy had climbed for an hour since Spayer had first glimpsed mountains through the mirage. According to the route map, one laser-printed sheet per vehicle, Refugee Camp Five was 175 miles from the city, 115 miles west of Haramah, and 8 miles west of Malaishu, on the south side of the road through the Malaishu Pass. At 20 miles an hour, a nine-hour trip. At 15, it’d take them into the darkness.
So far, though, they were holding 20 to 25, with bursts as high as 30. The road was arrow-straight between sparse, dead-looking bushes, but obviously hadn’t been graded for years. It alternated between jagged rocks and sandy patches. Bare poles stood at intervals, wire missing, many hewed down to stumps. Buzzards watched from the crosspieces as the convoy neared, rising to flap a few times and then circle. The dust the point Humvee kicked up hung motionless, making it seem like they were driving through chocolate milk. They went through villages, mud walls crowding the road on either hand, shadowed alleys down which lay compounds, the occasional parked car, hanging laundry. Caxi blinked sleep away. They were pulling one in three at the port and nobody on the fire team was getting enough bivvy time. A weight slumped against him: the kid, out like a light. The ADs, lashed to the truck with their headcloths, were asleep too. The growl of the engine and the clatter of rocks in the wheel-wells melted into a seamless black.
