That was what I imagined. Seeing her there, on the table, her skin puffy and dark, the exit wound of the bullet having torn apart her forehead. When the examiners got to that point I took a photo, left the tent, tossed my camera gear down and found the rock.
Tough.
“Yes,” I said. “Very tough. But only for a few minutes more.”
“You’re leaving?” Miriam asked.
“Sure,” I said. “Aren’t you? There’s another shift coming in, and Peter and me and Charlie, we’re going to get drunk, I think. Please join us.”
She rubbed my back. “Later, I will. I just met a woman, a classmate from the university. I want to talk some. But I’ll catch up with you at the hospital. All right?”
“Sure,” I said. Below us, some horns started honking and it was time to leave. I was going to kiss Miriam, but she was already up, heading back to the mine shaft. She paused, turned, and waved.
I waved back, and then went down to the parking lot.
PETER WAS STANDING near one of the Land Cruisers, his face grimy and his eyes red-rimmed. Other people were inside the vehicle. I went up to him and said, “Did you find her?”
“Yes,” he snapped back.
“I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be. By this time tomorrow she’ll be back home, away from this bloody place. And … she did her job, right up to the end.”
“Got the diskettes?”
“Got the diskettes.”
“I’m … My heart goes out to you, Peter.”
“Thanks.”
I looked back, wondering if I could catch Miriam, but she wasn’t in sight. I said, “Can I ask a favor?”
“Ask away.”
“Someday … someday I’d like to tell Miriam what Site A was all about. If it’s all right with you.”
Peter sighed. “Sure. Go ahead. But not now—maybe later. Like on your honeymoon or something.”
I almost smiled, and then I thought of Peter, no doubt just an hour or so away from having identified his dead wife among the body bags. So I just said, “Sure. Later.”
Peter wiped at his eyes. “Come on. Time to leave.”
We climbed into the Land Cruiser. Peter was driving again, and Charlie was there and another guy I didn’t know, a Japanese fellow who nodded and kept quiet. Peter tried to lighten the mood and said, “Another minute, we would have left you behind.”
“A chance for a shower and a drink, I wasn’t going to miss it, not at all,” I said.
This convoy was smaller, just two APCs in front, and we were the second Land Cruiser in the column. I leaned back in the seat, realizing that my back was throbbing. We went over the bridge, the planks making a clunking sound again, and I was about to ask Charlie what kind of drinks he was hoping for when the bridge blew up behind us, rolling us over.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
When the Land Cruiser rolled over the Japanese guy fell on top of me and started yelling. So did Peter and Charlie. I started fighting with the Japanese guy, trying to get him off me. Somebody, maybe Charlie, got a door open. We got out and stumbled around, and then someone yelled, “Down! Down! Down!” I don’t know, maybe the Japanese guy didn’t understand English or was too frightened, but he started running up the road, away from the now-burning timbers of the bridge. Automatic gunfire cut him down.
I coughed and choked. Then I crawled behind the overturned Land Cruiser. Peter was there, one arm bleeding and hanging strangely, and he was yelling into a hand-held radio. I crawled over to the other side where Charlie was at work, firing at somebody or something. Another explosion. I heard a loud whoosh! and looked up, seeing a smoke trail from a rocket waver up into the sky. One of our helicopters was climbing, its door gunner firing away. There was another whoosh! and this time the rocket went right into the helicopter’s open hatch. The explosion filled the aircraft with flame and smoke and it crumpled into itself, its blades spinning out like a windmill going berserk. It plummeted down into the hillside, blowing up in a big blossom of fire.
The gunfire was rapid and loud, and it seemed to be all around us. The bridge was ruined, and a Land Cruiser was tangled up in the shattered timbers, its windows blown out, two of its doors hanging open. I didn’t see anybody moving around in there. One of the APCs was next to us, its turret gun firing into the woods across the stream, to the left of the parking lot, and I could even hear the pings! as return fire struck its armor plating. The other APC was on its side, just like us, and the soldiers who’d been inside it had bailed out and were returning fire with their own automatic weapons. I wanted to yell, I wanted to scream, but most of all I had to find Miriam. Had to. She was on the other side of the stream bed, and now the tents where the bodies were being examined were on fire, their canvas walls and roofs peeling back and streamers of flame and smoke rising into the sky. Charlie stopped firing, ejected an empty clip, took out a full one—tapping it twice on the undercarriage of the Land Cruiser—and inserted it into his M-16. He looked over at me, breathing hard, his eyes wide. “You better stay put, buddy, ’cause we are in some serious shit here. Our air cover’s now on the ground, burning to beat the band.”
I crawled back to where Peter, panting, was leaning up against the vehicle’s undercarriage, one arm bloody and limp, radio in his good hand. “Got through to the region,” he shouted. “But it’s gonna take ’em a while to help us out. Fuckin’ bastards. A classic ambush. Wish I had my bag with me.”
“Where is it?”
“Inside the—Hey, don’t you dare—”
I got up, hoisted myself over the undercarriage of our Land Cruiser and immediately fell through the open door. The inside was a mess, with gear, empty coffee containers, ropes and duffel bags all mixed together. But I knew what Peter’s bag looked like—it had red handles—and I found my own bag as well. I tossed them both out of the open door and then followed them, landing hard on the packed dirt of the roadway. The nearest APC was growling as it churned up soft soil near the road, its turret swiveling, firing again. Charlie yelled, “You go, baby—get some!”
Peter didn’t waste any time, opening his bag and tossing out clothing and a notebook until he found a zippered black case. He unzipped it, holding it up to his mouth with his good hand and using his teeth, and pulled out an automatic pistol, a nine-millimeter model, it looked like. He thumbed back the hammer and rolled over beside the front tires and started firing, taking care to place each shot precisely. I had never felt so goddamned helpless in my life. I opened my own bag, dug through the camera gear and my notebooks, and pulled out a small pair of binoculars. I raised myself up over Peter’s prone body and tried to focus on what was going on across the way, by the mine’s parking lot.
The buildings and tents were now all ablaze, as well as a few of the Land Cruisers. A defensive line of some sort seemed to have been set up at the right side of the parking area, where the ground sloped down at a slight angle to the stream bed. Three APCs were hull-down behind the slope, and were firing up at the woods. There were a number of people there, milling about, and it seemed that only a few had weapons of their own and were firing back. I tried to calm my breathing, tried to calm my shaking hands, and tried to look at each person who was moving around there. Although I saw two or three women, I couldn’t find the woman I was looking for.
Charlie stopped firing again. I went over to him and said, “You got anything else? A pistol? The grenade launcher?”
He pulled out a fresh clip. “Grenade launcher’s back at base. Pistol I’ve got, but you’re not getting it. Sorry.”
“Damn it, I can’t just sit here and—”
The bolt of the M-16 snapped back. “The hell you can’t. You’re a civilian, Sammy, and if I give you that pistol, that’s just wasted rounds. And we can’t afford wasted rounds.”
Charlie was right—but, God, I hated him so at that moment. I looked back at Peter, who was successfully reloading his pistol with one hand, and I brought my binoculars up again to focus on the mine entrance. I saw s
ome flashes of light there, as the militia units poured fire down at us and at our comrades across the stream bed. Then there was a place where the brush and trees thinned out and I could actually make out people moving, people with their hands on their heads—prisoners—and the last person in line, moving up the hill, had long blonde hair.
I dropped the binoculars, got back down behind the Land Cruiser, looked to my left at Peter and to my right at Charlie. I was trying to decide which way to go, so I could ford that stream and do something, when the ground seemed to reach up and slap me down with an enormous boom!
I WASN’T OUT for very long, just a minute or two, but I was flat on my back, trying to get some breath into my lungs. I stared up at the smoky sky and at the oily undercarriage of the Land Cruiser, and Peter was yelling from what seemed like a long distance away. I got up and rubbed at my face, and Peter’s voice was clearer now: “Samuel, the first-aid kit! Now!”
He wasn’t at the front of the Land Cruiser and I turned and saw him with Charlie, who had been dragged back to where the rear tires were. The APC that had been returning fire was on its side now as well, burning furiously, its tires shredded and melting, and something that looked like a person was halfway out of one of the hatches, burning as well. I couldn’t bear to look at that for another second, so I got back inside the Land Cruiser, again falling down through the open door, and unclipped the kit from a bulkhead. I got back out and down on the ground, moving my jaw and trying to swallow—my ears felt like they were stuffed with cotton.
Charlie was on his back, his face a mess of blood. I opened the kit and Peter got to work, pulling out bandages and tape. He yelled, “Over here, hold this here,” and I did as I was told, holding a thick compress to the back of Charlie’s head. I kept the pressure up while Peter, working one-handed, used a pair of scissors, cutting up Charlie’s left pants leg, which was soaked through with blood. I glanced around. The firing had lessened. The three APCs across the way were still shooting, but it didn’t seem like there was much return fire. The tents and buildings of the mine were smoldering, making a lot of smoke but not much fire.
“Keep that pressure up, mate, just keep that pressure up,” Peter said, swearing as he worked on one of Charlie’s legs.
I just nodded, trying again to catch my breath. I looked around once more, trying to take it all in. The body of the Japanese guy was still in the middle of the road, the soldiers from the undamaged but overturned APC were still firing—slower, just like everybody else—and the other APC was still burning. Charlie was gurgling now, his breathing getting more raspy.
Peter was working as best he could with one hand, and said, “Keep that pressure up, you hear me?”
“Yeah, I hear you,” I said.
The bandage I was pressing against Charlie’s head was now getting moist, and then actually wet, with blood.
But I kept up the pressure.
ABOUT AN HOUR later I was standing by the destroyed wooden bridge, looking over the stream bed at the smoking ruins of what had been the most successful mass-grave recovery that UNFORUS had carried out as part of their mandate in the United States.
For about half a day, before the militias had attacked.
In the mess of timbers and planking—and the consensus was that it was a well-hidden, command-detonated mine that had taken out the bridge—a medic crew was trying to extricate whoever might be still alive in the crumpled-up Land Cruiser. Helicopters were now overhead, having quickly replaced their fallen mechanical comrades, and the road behind me was a moving mass of ambulances, APCs and soldiers who were going out into the woods, armed and ready to fight the shadows that had come out earlier and had shattered us. It was dusk and the growing darkness made me shiver. But I still stared up at that spot where I had seen a blonde woman being led away.
“Hey, Samuel,” came a voice, and I turned around. Peter was there, one arm in a sling, his other hand holding on to a radio.
“You OK?” I asked.
He moved his arm, winced. “Just temporary, until I get to the hospital.”
“How’s Charlie doing?”
Peter tried to shrug, winced again. “He got dusted off about fifteen minutes ago. He’s holding on, but … Well, he’s holding on. He’s a tough Marine. And thanks for your help.”
I said nothing, turned back to look over at the camp. It looked like organized chaos as people moved around, either shouting orders or obeying them. Most of the people were heavily armed, and helicopters landed and took off every few minutes. Every now and then I picked up my binoculars, did a scan. Nothing of interest. Nothing.
Peter said, “We should head back.”
“No.”
“What are you going to do, head on up into the woods after her?”
“It’s a thought.”
He squeezed my shoulder. “Let the professionals do their work, Samuel. They’ll find her.”
I looked back at him—in amazement, I guess. “Professionals? What professionals? We just got the shit kicked out of us, or haven’t you noticed? And how long before the armistice gets put back in—after all, we all want peace, right? How long before Miriam is just listed as one of the many missing? That’s the new professionalism, isn’t it?”
Peter let his hand fall away from my shoulder. “I can’t answer that, and I don’t want to, because you’re probably right. Look, Samuel, we need to go. First, you need a meal and some rest. Second, if you try to do anything tonight the UN guys are just going to grab you and prevent you from doing shit. What Miriam needs from you is a healthy and rested Samuel. That’s all you can do for her, at this moment.”
I thought about something and said, “The diskettes.”
“Yeah?”
“They’re … they’re safe? Tell me they’re safe.”
“Yeah, they’re safe. Halfway across the Atlantic at this moment, ready to be presented to the PM tomorrow.”
“At least that wasn’t fucked up,” I said.
Peter said, “Come on, we should go.”
I brought the binoculars back up to my eyes. It was getting too dark to see anything clearly and I knew the guys over there wouldn’t want to set up any lighting, not yet.
I turned. “Yeah, you’re right. Let’s get the hell out of here.”
We went back to our overturned Land Cruiser, and I made out the wet area in the dirt where Charlie had been bleeding. A crew of some sort was at work at the burned-out APC, and I averted my eyes. I had seen plenty today, thank you. Peter went on up ahead to talk to an officer in fatigues and blue helmet, and while he was talking I noticed Charlie’s M-16, resting on the ground. I kicked at it and it fell into the weeds by the side of the roadway. I followed and started kicking again, this time at the embankment, kicking and kicking until I’d dug a hole. Then I pushed the rifle in, tumbled the dirt back over it, and went up to Peter and waited to be evacuated.
I refused to look back at the few lights and smoldering fires that marked where the recovery camp had been.
THE NEXT DAY, stiff and groggy from not enough sleep, I found my way to a particular hospital room, a ward, really, where curtains had been drawn around the beds to give the patients some form of privacy. Finding the right bed wasn’t a problem: the Marines in fatigues grouped around it made it easy to locate. They looked back at me and their strong faces beneath short haircuts gave me a very disapproving look, because, after all, I was a civilian. And all civilians do is to send in their military to clean up their messes.
But the bandaged man lying in bed saw me and said in a hoarse whisper, “Hey, Samuel, c’mon over.”
The men moved aside and I went to him, grasping the hand that didn’t have an IV in it. This was the first time I had ever seen Charlie out of uniform, and it was amazing how he seemed to have shrunk. There was a bandage around the back of his head, and his right leg was also bandaged and was hanging from an overhead chain. A tube was running out of his leg and an IV was feeding into his right hand. His face was scratched and bruised but he w
as smiling, and he squeezed my hand back, strongly. Peter had been right. Charlie was tough.
“Guys, this is Samuel Simpson, from Canada,” Charlie announced to the other Marines. “He was in the unit I was assigned to.”
The guys stared and a couple of the friendlier ones just nodded. Then Charlie said, “He’s a good guy. Gave me backup when I needed it, and gave me good first aid. Probably wouldn’t be here if it weren’t for him.”
With that statement it was as though an iceberg of hostility had just shattered. The guys smiled and came over and shook my hand and slapped me on the back and introduced themselves to me—although I quickly lost track of who was a private and who was a gunnery sergeant and who was a lance corporal—and they said that if I ever needed anything, all I had to do was check in with the Sixth Marine Expeditionary Force and I’d be taken care of, don’t you worry about a thing. Then it was, hey, Charlie, we’ve got to get going.
And like a quick-moving thunderstorm the Marines jostled around Charlie, poking him and punching his shoulder and squeezing his hand, and then they were gone. Charlie said, “Spare chair there, Samuel, why don’t you take a seat?”
Which I did. I looked around the ward, saw a pile of yellow and red plastic toys in the corner. Charlie noticed where I was looking and said, “This used to be a daycare place for the hospital staff. But you can see what they had to do after yesterday’s cluster-fuck.”
“How are you doing?”
“Oh, Christ, I’m hanging in there,” he said. “Got a slight concussion, happened when that Hungarian APC got greased. Also got some shrapnel in my leg and the back of my head. Good thing I was wearing my vest. The medics picked up about a half-pound of shrapnel back there. How about you, Samuel? You doin’ OK?”
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