Rock Paper Tiger

by Lisa Brackmann

  He gave the rock a final toss, then he hurled it at the shed.

  “Hey, I think you got the doorknob.” Hitting the doorknob was worth extra points.

  “’Cause they should get to live in a normal country, you know? Have decent lives.” Then he shook his head. “But the circumstances … sometimes the circumstances just suck.”

  If by “the circumstances” he meant that the people around there were dirt-poor and lived in shitholes with intermittent electricity and contaminated water, and that a large percentage of them hated us and kept trying to kill us, well, I guess I’d have to agree.

  Trey was a Sergeant First Class in MI (“Military Intelligence,” for the acronym-impaired). He wasn’t an interpreter, but he’d picked up some Arabic, and he was always trying to teach me phrases, “to be polite and show your respect for the locals.” I didn’t really want to get to know the locals, to be honest, but I went along with him. I would have pretty much done anything he’d ask me to. That’s how stupid-crazy I was about the guy.

  Which is why, late one night when I was manning the aid station on my own (Blanchard being off-duty and the other medic out with Saddam’s Revenge), I didn’t ask too many questions when Trey and his OGA buddy Kyle brought in the PUC.

  OGA means “Other Government Agency.” Sometimes that means CIA, sometimes DIA, sometimes a private contractor like Blackwater. You don’t ask.

  “Hey, Ellie. Give us a hand here?”

  Trey and Kyle carried this hajji between them, a middleaged man with a gut who was dressed in U.S. Army fatigues that didn’t fit him. His arms were flopping around, and he muttered something which, naturally, I didn’t understand.

  “Put him over there.” I pointed to a bed and went into my routine.

  They laid him out on the bed and stepped away, like this wasn’t something they were supposed to see.

  Hajji looked shocky. Sweat poured off him, and his skin had a grayish tone to it. Pulse shallow, fast, and thready, respiration rapid.

  “Hand me those pillows,” I ordered without thinking. Before I even tried to get a BP on this guy, I wanted to elevate his legs and treat him for shock.

  Trey and Kyle stood there for a minute, frozen in place.

  “Jesus,” I muttered and grabbed the pillows myself, lifted up the dude’s legs with one hand, and stuffed the pillows under his knees and calves and feet.

  Hajji screamed.

  “Okay. It’s gonna be okay,” I told the guy, taking hold of his hand. “It’s gonna be okay.”

  He opened his eyes. Stared at me.

  I got out the BP cuff. His pressure was 90 over 40. Not good. Not dying, but not right either.

  “Okay,” I said. “Let’s see what’s going on here.” I patted his hand and started to unbutton his fatigue jacket.

  His eyes opened wider. His head shook back and forth, and he started babbling about something.

  “They don’t like women seeing them,” Kyle said.

  “Trey,” I said, “can you tell this guy I’m trying to help?”

  Trey snapped out something in Arabic. The PUC didn’t calm down. So Trey said something else. It didn’t sound nice, but maybe that’s just the language.

  The guy stared at Trey, at me, and then he closed his eyes.

  I unbuttoned the jacket.

  Purpling bruises on his abdomen and point tenderness in at least five places along his ribs. Belly a little rigid.

  Okay, I thought. Okay. Before I do anything else, I’m gonna get some oxygen and some fluids into this guy, both of which come under the “do no harm” heading.

  So I did that. But he still didn’t look good. “How is he?” Trey asked.

  “I dunno.” I was thinking I should do the rest of my secondary survey, check out what was going on with his legs, for one thing. But whatever was wrong, it wasn’t anything I’d be able to fix.

  “You need to get him to a hospital,” I said.

  “Fuck,” said Kyle, pounding his fist on his thigh.

  “He’s going into shock,” I explained. “There’s a lot of things that can cause that. Pipes, pump, or pressure.” I repeated the mantra I’d learned in EMT training, because I couldn’t think of anything else to say. Then I thought to add, “Like there might be some underlying cardiac insufficiency, especially if there was some respiratory compromise, but I’m guessing he’s got some internal bleeding going on, from the look of those rib contusions.”

  It was Trey’s turn to stare, probably because he’d never heard me do my medic routine before.

  “Look, he needs a doctor,” I said. “I’m just a medic. There’s only so much I can do.” I was thinking we could transport him to the hospital in town, or maybe copter him to Camp Screaming Eagle Whatever where they had a full-on combat support hospital that could actually help him.

  “What about Blanchard?” Trey asked.

  “I mean, we could call him, I guess. But he’s a physician’s assistant. It’s not like he can remove this guy’s spleen or something.”

  Kyle shook his head. “I dunno,” he said. “I dunno.”

  For whatever reason, I wanted to tell him to go fuck himself. Maybe because all of a sudden I realized that I didn’t like OGA Kyle very much. Which was weird, because Kyle had always struck me as this totally normal guy before. Like I couldn’t even really describe him: just some dude around thirty, nondescript, even a little dumpy, nobody I ever would have noticed unless I had to.

  I’d never thought about who he might work for. What his job might be.

  Because I was frustrated, and because I didn’t want to think about why I didn’t like Kyle, I decided to do my job. I grabbed a pair of scissors and started to cut off the PUC’s pants.

  Hajji was pretty out of it, but this got a rise out of him. His head lifted off the pillow; his arms waved around ineffectually, and the oxygen mask muffled whatever he was trying to say.

  “Sorry,” I said. “Uh, afwan. Jesus, Trey, would you talk to this guy?”

  Trey said something. Yelled it, almost. The PUC’s eyes widened for a moment, and then his head thumped against the pillow.

  He wasn’t wearing any underwear. Was this normal for Iraqis? I realized that I had no idea. He moaned beneath the oxygen mask.

  I finished cutting off the pants.

  “Shit.”

  His legs. His legs were a fucking mess. Purple with bruises, hematomas—blood-filled, egg-sized lumps on his shins.

  “Shit,” I said again. “What happened to this guy?”

  Neither Trey or Kyle said anything for a moment.

  “It happened during capture,” Kyle said carefully. “He was a high-value target. He resisted, and things got a little rough.”

  “Rough. Like, you ran over him with a Stryker?” The words came out of my mouth before I could stop myself.

  “Ellie, this is a really bad guy,” Trey said, a pleading note in his voice. “We think he’s one of the ringleaders in the gang that’s been dropping mortars on us the past three months.”

  I shrugged. “Whatever.” It wasn’t like I particularly cared about Mr. Ali Baba here. But I still had this notion that I should do my job, which meant helping people if possible. “All I’m saying is that he’s busted up pretty bad, and I can’t fix him. He needs to get to a doctor.”

  “Fuck,” Kyle repeated, sounding more irritated than anything else. “Okay.” He turned to Trey. “Let’s make the call.”

  “Someone’s gotta stay here with her,” Trey objected.

  “What, you think he’s going anywhere? Just cuff him to the bed.”

  So that’s what they did. Meanwhile, I grabbed some blankets, covered the guy up, tried to get him warm. I was thinking MAST trousers, the anti-shock suit that you can also use for a legs-andpelvis splint. Maybe that would help.

  “I’ll be back as soon as I can,” Trey said, resting his hand on my shoulder.

  I didn’t want to look at him. “Okay.”

  After they left, I put on the MAST, and I tried to
be gentle, tried not to hurt him, but with every little movement of his legs he moaned or screamed and thrashed around, wrists straining against the cuffs, and I kept saying, “Sorry, I’m sorry. Afwan,” but I was still hurting him.

  When that was done, I checked Ali Baba’s vitals again. About the same. I wanted to take a smoke break, but I was afraid to leave. Of course, if he started circling the drain, there wasn’t a lot I could do about it.

  “Hey, Doc.”

  It was a soldier I’d seen before, National Guard like me, Private Abrams.

  “What’s up?”

  “I got the runs like you wouldn’t believe. Can you hook me up with something?”

  “I can get you Imodium. Fluids if you’re dehydrated.”

  The disappointment showed on his face. “Poole came in with the same thing,” he said, “and the doc hooked him up with some serious meds. Stopped the shit right there.”

  I almost laughed, because I had a pretty good idea what the guy had come here for. Nothing like a good dose of morphine to cure the trots. Or whatever else it is that ails you. “Sorry. I can only get you Imodium. Come back and talk to the P.A. tomorrow if you need something else.”

  “Shit,” he muttered. “Well, I guess I’ll take the Imodium, then.”

  I sat down at the computer to take his info. Abrams peered around me and took a look at my other patient.

  “Who’s that?”

  “Some PUC.”

  “What happened to him?”

  I shrugged. “Got messed up.”

  Abrams wandered over to the bed. “Man, they fucked him good,” he said admiringly. I turned my head and saw that Abrams had lifted up the blanket for a better look.

  “Hey, hands off the patient.”

  Abrams dropped the blanket, raised his hands. “No harm, Doc.” He laughed. “Somebody beat me to it.”

  It took almost an hour for the copter to come. Ali Baba’s level of consciousness took a downturn while we waited; he was really out of it and started flailing around, and even with his wrists cuffed he almost pulled out the IV. But he was still breathing when they bundled him off, and that’s all I know about what happened to him.

  When it was all over, I sat on the stoop and smoked a cigarette. Trey sat down next to me.

  “You okay?” he asked.

  “Sure. Fine.”

  My hand was shaking a little, though, and I had that hollowed-out feeling, like I’d been stretched tight and thin, and there wasn’t enough of a wall between me and the world.

  I hadn’t had to treat anything really serious before, not like that. The patrol a couple weeks ago that got nailed by the IED, the two badly wounded soldiers were coptered out. I just had some minor shrapnel and burns to deal with. The heart attack, okay, that was serious, but it wasn’t messy. The guy who blew his brains out was messy, but dead.

  Sure, I’d been trained; I’d done well in my training, but I hadn’t had all that much practice.

  I stubbed out the cigarette and lit another. “So, that guy, they really whaled on him.”

  “Things got a little out of control,” Trey said uncomfortably. “But you know, there’s a lot of emotion, adrenaline gets going… . He put up a fight, Ellie. That’s what happens to bad guys out here when they don’t do what they’re told.”

  I didn’t reply. I was trying to imagine the fight that would produce those kinds of injuries, particularly the shin contusions, and I couldn’t quite picture it. Repeated kicks, maybe? Blows with a rifle butt?

  And why was he wearing Army fatigues?

  “You did great in there, Ellie,” Trey said, giving me that look of his, like he’s taking me in, like he sees everything about me. “I know it wasn’t easy.”

  I shrugged. “I just did my job.”

  Trey put his arm around me, gave my shoulder a little squeeze, and all I wanted to do was melt into him, let go of all my doubts and fears, and trust him absolutely.

  Who cares about Mr. Ali Baba, anyway? I thought.

  It was just that I kept seeing his purpling legs, how swollen they were in places.

  So the next afternoon, after I woke up—I was still working night shifts then—I made myself a mocha and sat on my bunk in our hooch and regarded Greif, sitting on the bunk next to me, drinking a cup of green tea and tapping away on her laptop. She was working nights too. Pulagang worked a normal day shift, making sure everyone got their clothes back from the Iraqi contractors.

  “Hey, Greif,” I said hesitantly, because Greif never had gotten friendly with any of us. “So, you work with the PUCs, right?”

  She gave me one of her blank stares. “I’m an Arabic interpreter.”

  Meaning “What the fuck else would I be doing, and why are you asking me such a dumb-ass question?”

  “Yeah … I was just wondering… .” I studied my mocha. I wasn’t even sure what I wanted to ask. “Well, there was this hajji that came in to the aid station last night, and he was pretty messed up. This OGA, Kyle, said he was high value.”

  Maybe it was my imagination, but Greif suddenly seemed more alert. “Sometimes the PUCs resist capture,” she said, staring at me through her wire-framed specs.

  “Yeah, I know, but this guy … I mean, he was really fucked up.”

  Greif shrugged, like she had no idea what I was talking about and she didn’t really care.

  “Stuff happens.”

  She turned back to her laptop, but I got the feeling she was still watching me, somehow.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  “YILI,” JOHN SAYS. “I think you are feeling better now?”

  I have two equally strong reactions: I want to run like hell away from this freak, and I want to claw his eyes out, punch him in the jaw, kick him in the nuts. Which isn’t really realistic. But neither is running, because I don’t run that well, and this section of the Great Wall is so steep I’d probably break my neck trying.

  So I don’t do anything. I just stand there.

  “You look much better now,” John continues. “I was worried about you that night.”

  I have to give the guy credit for his brass balls, because he’s wearing his most innocent expression, and I’m sure if I accuse him of anything, he’ll do that squinty-eyed, puzzled look he has down to a Kabuki act.

  “Hello, John,” I say. “What brings you to the Great Wall?”

  He smiles broadly. “I am afraid maybe you are still mad at me,” he says. “Because you were not in your right head that night.”

  “So you came up here … to see if I was okay?”

  That prompts the squinty look. “Oh, Yili. I do not know that you will be here tonight. This is just … some kind of coincidence.”

  “Right. A coincidence.”

  John takes one step toward me, his hands half-raised to show how friendly he is.

  “You know, in China we have this idea, hong xian. Have you heard of this?”

  Hong xian means “red thread.”

  “No, I haven’t.”

  “It is about fate,” John continues, seeming to warm to the subject. “It is the red thread that tangles but does not break. It is the thing that connects some people to each other. Because they are meant to be connected.” He takes a step closer. “I think, maybe, you and I have this red thread between us, Yili. Don’t you think so?”

  I take a deep breath. “Actually, John, I think I’m just gonna turn around and go back to the party. Okay? Because you really make me nervous.”

  As John takes another step in my direction, I say: “And seriously, if you come any closer, I’m gonna scream.”

  “Okay, Yili,” John says, surprisingly calm about the whole thing. “But I just want you to know something. If you have some trouble, some problem, you can call me.” He stares at me, and there’s just enough illumination from the spots they put up for the party that I can see his dark eyes, staring at me. But his eyes, there’s no light in them now; they’re some dense, black metal, and they suck up all the light, and suddenly I’m really scared again.<
br />
  “I’m going now,” I say. “Please don’t follow me.”

  It feels like I’m fighting gravity, like the air has turned to syrup, and I can hardly move. I walk as fast as I can down the Wall, drenched in sweat, thinking: I can’t turn around; I’ll turn into salt; I just have to keep walking and not look back.

  “Yili, wait—”

  I run.

  Half the party’s moved up here. Knots of people; couples laughing, drinking, making out; they surround me. The beat of the music thrums in my ears. I stumble a little, bump somebody with my elbow. “Sorry,” I say. “Duibuqi.” A bottle shatters, and I keep walking down the Wall. The lights strobe on and off, and John is following me, I know he is, and I’ve got to get out of here.

  Then I hear gunfire. Full auto, in rapid staccato. I almost drop and roll. No, I tell myself. Don’t be stupid. This is China.

  It’s firecrackers, dumbshit.

  I hear drums. Like it’s a Peking Opera, or that crazy Olympics opening show. The techno music stops. The drums get louder, and there’s chanting. “Hah hah HAH hah HAH!”

  The crowd around me parts, and a girl standing next to me giggles and points. I look down the Wall.

  Marching in tight formation are ranks of … what? Soldiers? They’re Chinese, wearing uniforms, but the colors are wrong: they’re wearing red vests and striped shirts, black ballcaps. Some of them carry drums, the drums that beat out the marching cadence. The others have … buckets. Paper buckets.

  Around me, the crowd erupts in laughter, and then I get why: it’s an army of KFC workers.

  The KFC Army stops in unison. The drums pound. They chant and raise their buckets high.

  Great, just what I need right now. Fucking performance art.

  Okay, I think. Okay. I can squeeze past them on the right. They’re doing their piece, whatever it means; they’re not going to care about me.

  I make my move.

  And see a rival army climbing up the Wall.

  McDonald’s workers.

  All at once, the KFC Army changes formation. The drummers fall back, still beating out their cadence. The personnel carrying the buckets surge forward to meet the encroaching cadres from Mickey D’s.