Eleven Days

by Lea Carpenter

  Had her son died in an “exciting” way? People might say that he had—not to her face, but they might say that. But there was nothing exciting about death. And she decides in that moment, in that room, in that country where so many have died for what seems like so little for so long—she decides that she will remember her son, frozen forever, before he slipped over the horizon, into the hole. She will remember him as he was when she last saw him—not as she is seeing him now. When she last saw him, in the fall, at home, taking the cake from the box. He had lifted the little flag from its center and licked the icing off before planting it, firmly, on top of her piece. “Sic transit Gloria mundi, Mommy,” he had said. And now she hears him say that and she remembers: “When we assumed the soldier we did not lay aside the citizen.” Or the son, she thinks. Or my son.

  END EX

  OVERLAND, 12:10 A.M.,

  MAY 2, 2011

  “Rabbit, rabbit,” Jason says, almost under his breath. It is just after midnight on the second of May, local time, still technically the first of May back home. They’re flying with SOAR, the 160th Special Operations Aviation Regiment. One of their mottos is “Death waits in the dark,” a motto more true for these wars, perhaps, than for others. Wasn’t there a time when, like football games, wars had formal starts and finishes, more well-articulated time-outs and civilized stand-downs for meals? Now war was continuous and unrelenting. The definition was not the conquering of a place or a people or a patch of grass; no one “conquered” anyone anymore. The definition of success in wartime as Jason’s generation knew it was the prevention of future bloodshed, the corralling of “terror.”

  The plan was to fast-rope out from the helo (a modified Black-hawk this time) if they could, onto the roof of a building. They knew the exact size and shape of the building and the dimensions of its interior spaces; they’d worked with a mockup for weeks. The mockup got the guys used to things as simple as how to turn around inside a particular hallway, and how to categorize exit options (in this case there were very few.)

  Even though the stakes tonight were higher than they had been on other nights, the squad’s temperatures were not raised. They were doing exactly what they knew how to do, the thing at which they were, of all the special operators in the world, uniquely skilled. They would land, as planned; if an unforced error required another kind of landing, they would accommodate that fact. They would land as planned, and they would clear this house and find what they were there to find: an individual, and an item—a “document,” someone said. They were well covered and well watched. It occurred to Jason that this is just the kind of mission his godfather might one day be invited to observe, live, from a secure location.

  The weather mattered on all missions, of course, but particularly on missions where helicopters were part of the plan. In terms of complexity, insertion via helo ranked below combat swimmer or HAHO, but above foot patrol from an FOB or ground assault force movement with Humvees, or MRAPs. Even the most sophisticated piece of aviation technology is susceptible to strain. And the history of mechanical mishaps was well known among them. They were lucky: the weather this night was perfect. The moon complied. They had to fly low over the land, so low that Jason could see the shapes of individual trees through the window, and the lines where snow was starting to melt into water. The air was cool, but the forecast read even for the next twenty-four hours. This was auspicious, much more time than they would need. They were hoping to take an hour—or less—and then they would turn around, return home, and have one of the best night’s sleeps they had had in a while.

  He had been to this country before and, over the last weeks, had read as much as he could about its history. Certainly he’d look back on these days at another time in his life and be glad that he’d been there, right? This was the center of the world now, if not the cradle of her civilization. It was the place where bad things were bred, according to certain politicians who selectively blended their facts; it was the place through which the money coming from bad things flowed, according to others. One fact was uncontested: it was a place of rich traditions and history, of revolutionaries who had founded it on a belief in the idea of a free and independent state, just as Americans had done in another nation over two centuries ago. Jason knew an NCIS officer who’d been born there, a girl, and she’d told him many times how magical it was. She’d made him promise to go. For a nation of its size, it performed a remarkable trick of holding larger nations in the palm of its hand by virtue of wisely timed obstinance, and threats. And access to capital. “Just follow the money,” his mother’s friends in finance would say. “I can follow the money and predict your next six missions.”

  He had called his mother earlier that day but didn’t reach her. So he had sent her a text asking how her day was, assuring her he would be home soon, wondering whether they could take a trip this summer, just the two of them, something they hadn’t done since he was a kid. So many of his other leaves had been spent training; there was never an absence of opportunity for that, and so the guys always waited to purchase plane tickets before knowing the various “school schedules.” That was all behind him now. The longest he’d been home these last years at any one time was a week. Now he wanted more downtime. He wanted to sleep late. He wanted to play golf, poorly, and run around the local reservoir. He wanted to make spaghetti with clams, and eat it while watching college ball. He wanted to do all the little things that people did.

  He had sent an e-mail to Sam, reminding him of his promise to take care of Sara should anything happen. That was enough, he knew, for Sam to know that something was up, a signal that Jason was going somewhere perhaps particularly “hot”—the word they would use as a catchall for trips civilians might call “dangerous” or “suicidal.” He reminded Sam about the letter he wrote, where it is, what is to be done with it. Jason knew that In Case Of, Sam would say just the right thing to all the right people. Sam wouldn’t be intimidated by Sara’s occasionally icy exterior. And he wouldn’t be intimidated by anyone who crowded around her, from the wealthy country mothers to the Washington machers whose pieces she edited. Sam had even read the CACO handbook, online, in his spare time, teasing Jason that he’d read it “just for you, buddy,” after they’d discussed Jason’s choice to redeploy one last time. “Can you believe they actually have a line item saying, ‘Do use the word dead’?” he’d said.

  His last night with the girl before going, he cracked. There was nothing separating this goodbye from its predecessors, except he cared more now. What he felt for her was the closest thing he had ever felt to love, and he was not sure he liked it. What he felt was that he didn’t want to leave her, and he’d never felt that before for anyone. He felt he didn’t want to leave her not because it occurred to him that he might not be back but because it occurred to him—regularly now—that life is short, and time moves too quickly, and when you find someone you want to be with, that’s rare. The realist in him tried to kill this train of thought, but the romantic, newly skilled with evidence, fought back. And so lying in bed that night, he’d cried. The release of emotion was a rare indulgence.

  “Hey,” she said, and sat up. “Hey.”

  “I’m good,” he said, and laughed, as he knew how that must sound given how he looked.

  “You are good,” she said, and she put her hands on his heart. “You are good, and you are going to be fine.”

  “Roger that,” he said.

  “Take those rocks with you—just a few. A lucky charm.”

  “Will they heal me?”

  “Yes.”

  She awoke before he did. She tied a bit of myrrh into a little pouch and slipped it into his pocket when he came toward her.

  “Rocks,” he said, and smiled.

  “Yes, Achilles. You would have forgotten.”

  “Thank you.”

  He’d called his godfather. Something about the conversation made it clear to Jason that they each knew the other knew more than what was said about what lay ahead.


  “I want it in writing that you’re retiring after this,” his godfather said.

  “Sir?”

  “I want it in writing.”

  “You know, I think I lost all my pens,” said Jason.

  “I want it in writing.”

  “Do I get a retirement gift?”

  “Anything you want.”

  “Anything?”

  “How about a car. You have a license, don’t you?”

  “And I have a car.”

  “Okay, how about a job?”

  “How about a trip.”

  “A trip?”

  “Yeah. A nice, long trip.”

  “Done. Rome? Vienna?”

  “I’d like to go see the mountains.”

  “You’ve spent five years in the mountains, and you’d like to go see some mountains?”

  “I’d like to see the Rocky Mountains.”

  “Really?”

  “They’re eight million years old.”

  “Really.”

  “Inhabited solely by skiers and wildlife.”

  “This is true. So you want some quiet.”

  “I want to learn how to snowboard.”

  “Great. Snowboarding lessons. That’s my retirement gift. Lessons and plane tickets.”

  “Ah, I don’t need lessons. Just a board.”

  “Jason, be safe.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Don’t be a hero.”

  *

  He is holding the myrrh per his orders, and he smiles at the strangeness of that. The guys would crucify him if they knew; sentimentality and metaphor were not generally part of the load-out. But why were those rocks any odder an emblem than everything else he had on him right now. Suddenly it all seemed strange—the guns, the ammo, his highly customized NVGs. He’d be terrified if he ran into himself in an alley. This is just another mission, he tells himself, one in many ways not unlike ones he’s been through many times before. The intelligence is good; the team is small. The equipment is the most sophisticated ever designed in the history of warfare. No one has kitchen cleavers tonight. If successful, Jason’s participation on this trip will lead to other, similar requests, and a potential change in his attitude about staying in the game. It is time, after all, for a promotion, the nature of naval promotions still having to do more with time served than variation of service. What would it feel like to sit in one place all day—for the rest of his life? It would never feel as good as this.

  Yes, this is just another mission, even as they are all aware that it is not. The prize is the pride they take in their quiet accomplishments. “We’re just a bunch of half-crazy drunks!” someone had shouted in a bar a few nights before they left, responding to a girl who had asked his mate if he was “in the Teams.” Jason smiled, remembering that. He inhales and exhales and closes his eyes. When he leans his head back it thwacks against the window; he startles himself. “Sweet dreams,” someone whispers to his left. He smiles. Without opening his eyes or responding, he realizes his girlfriend’s brother is sitting right next to him.

  Every night, every op, every house: death is always a possible outcome. Even taking into account the vast network of supports watching over them once they were at target—backup copters; ISR, including drones—nothing could save an operator from an unanticipated contingency or surprise. Tighter OODA loops won’t save a soldier from a hostile adolescent holding an RPG. But death is not where his mind is now. His mind is entering the place it always enters in these moments: a carefully modulated yogic focus. They have about one hundred miles to go—then one hundred miles more before they are back at the base.

  *

  He thinks about the stories most commonly shared within this group about this group, a collection in which tonight might take its place, a collection of names that celebrate risk but sounded like they celebrated peace and protection: Earnest Will. Praying Mantis. Desert Shield. Restore Hope. Active Endeavor. Even guys who’d never cared for history knew the elements of these ops by heart: how in Grenada the operators had fast-roped from the bird with a chainsaw to cut down the trees that blocked the LZ (the helo had had to touch down because a CIA officer on board didn’t know how to fast-rope). How in Mogadishu the Somalis lined both sides of the street and shot to the center. How in Iraq a uniquely skilled sniper used an overturned crib to mount his gun; it was the only piece of furniture in the room, and it was the perfect height.

  These were the stories that wove together to become the legend. There were failures, but we learned from them. There were controversies, but they evaporated in the face of increased needs to meet new threats. And there were always detractors, those who generally thought wars were too time-consuming and costly, who felt the lives of young Americans were better put to use back home, in a factory or a pharmacy. Still, the military withstood the storms of opinion. After Panama, and apropos of the wisdom of mission names, General Powell pointed out that “even our severest critics would have to utter ‘Just Cause’ while denouncing us.”

  Jason thinks about the question his Academy English professor once raised: Athenians versus Spartans? Did we really know fewer Spartans by name because they were not as skilled in battle, or do we simply lack memory for their heroes because skill in battle is not the axis on which history turns? History turns on the stories handed down to us, and the Athenians had far finer storytellers. “Athens or Sparta?” When the professor posed that question, all hands had shot up for Sparta. If they were all polled now, having served, would they say the same thing?

  He knows it is important to breathe. He starts trying to clear his mind of everything other than what is in front of him. Studies done on the brains of young operators have shown that they not only respond differently to fear than most of the civilian population; their minds actually adapt—through training—to a more mature processing of threats. It’s psychological, but it’s also chemical. Some of the most successful operators find that their blood pressure drops when they’re working. Those same guys might see their pressure rise when they drive down a quiet suburban street. In combat, they are still. Everything is still.

  Once, in the Pamirs, Jason carried ski poles on a jump, like James Bond. After David died, one of the people at that party in Georgetown, a former KSA ambassador, had said David “was the closest most of us would ever come to knowing 007.” Now it sounds silly, but at the time it sounded about right. At the time, all Jason wanted to hear was that his father had been a great man, a man people loved. Jason wanted to believe that whatever was true of his father would become true for him, too. He knew just enough then to revere his father but not quite enough to resent him. The loss had not set in in a way that made it feel final. It didn’t feel like a moment of mourning, not to a little boy.

  Someone had repeated the Bond line to a journalist approaching a deadline; she had used it on the air later that night. And then it went viral—or what passed for viral in that time, which meant traveling the lengths of critical dinner tables before spilling over into the three papers that mattered. By the end of the week, six separate sources claimed the quote, then retracted it, then just let it drift. And then it stuck. Each succeeding account and obituary repeated it, and by the time Jason entered junior high, it had become part of the official story of David. And myths hold. While that night was the first time Jason had ever heard of MI6, he would become obsessed in the ensuing years, and Sara later lent him her collected Ian Flemings, hand-me-downs from David. She was always careful to reinforce the fact for her son that “this is fiction, honey; it’s fantasy. It’s not real.”

  There is no room for a book in his assault pack this night, but if there had been, he would have brought one along. He always tried to carry something to read, something to force his focus on, perhaps something moreover to give an appearance to others of being calm. This way he could avoid talking. Which book would he have chosen? He thinks about his mother and remembers her reading to him about Jason and his Argonauts. He can see the cover of her worn D’Aulaires editio
n, its childlike illustrations and their palettes grounded in golds and greens. He liked the story at first because the boy—the hero—shared his name. What was so special about the Jason in the story; why was he the one chosen to recover the Golden Fleece? Now he cannot clearly remember. It had been so long since he last read it, and he cannot even recall the value of the fleece. He cannot recall what the hero wore or if he even carried any weapons. Did Neptune watch over him and his warriors on their ship as they traveled? When Jason pressed his mother to explain the difference between “myths” and “fictions,” she had thought about it for a while, and then said, “A myth is a fiction that matters.”

  He remembers BUD/S, and all those times he swam the length of the pool without breathing. What was his secret to swimming underwater? What was his secret for holding his breath? “We tell ourselves stories in order to live,” his mother used to say, quoting her favorite writer. Each time he would enter the water, he would start a new story, usually with “The year is X and we are in Y.” His rule was that he was not allowed to breathe until the story was started; as training progressed, so did the complexity of his plotlines. He would later learn about meditation and realize that his stories were his way of meditating, of—almost accidentally—controlling his breathing. Like a “fuck you” for Christmas, his gift is a curse.

  He remembers a phrase they learned in Qualification Training: bunbu itchi. A Samurai maxim, it means “pen and sword in accord.” Operators, like authors, are trained to notice things. A sniper will see a window crack open from more than a half-mile away. And the finest shooters possess emotional intelligence, too—a gift that cannot be quantified on a test or through a drill. The finest operators possess emotional intelligence and emotional celerity, the abilities not only to understand instincts but also to act on them. Where were these skills learned? Were they—as the man in the airport, with the two hearts, had put it—“DNA”? Not every operator can dial his emotions like a desk clerk dials a rotary phone, controlling the speed at which they rise and fall—but the best ones can. Click. Click. Click. Click. Click.