The Sandbox

by David Zimmerman

  18

  Baba is gone. And so, says Nevada, is the treasured hoard of Jugs and Hustlers he keeps in his locker. Nevada had a good forty or fifty of them. All winnings from the insect pit. Outside of DVDs and video games, jacking off is one of the few forms of recreation on the base. The theft of the porno library is an enormous loss to everyone, but to Nevada most of all. He is in a rage bordering on psychotic. When I find him in the mess hall, he looks very near to throttling Doc Dyson to death, although, unless I miss my guess, he’d be the last one to swipe porno mags. He is small, however, which is probably why he’s suffering Nevada’s wrath. Nevada is not the only one worked up. Hazel paces around the camp tables, locking and unlocking his weapon. He doesn’t look at me or answer when I greet him. I stand up on a bench.

  “Has anyone seen Baba?”

  At first no one replies. There are only six or seven men sitting at the tables, crunching despondently on their sandy T-Rats. I point at Dyson. “Nevada, let him loose.”

  Nevada stops actively choking poor Dyson, but he continues to rub his fist against Dyson’s scalp. No one else pays me any mind either. I whistle as loudly as I can. “Did anyone see Baba leave? His tent is empty, and Sergeant Guzman says a Ma Deuce is missing. Did anyone see him during the attack?”

  “That fat fucking hajji,” Nevada says, “has just pinched my last nerve. If I find him . . . Goddamn. He must want me to pop him one. He must really fucking want his ass kicked out through his mouth.” Nevada stops his ranting and looks to the door. Something else seems to have occurred to him. He lets loose Dyson, who immediately scrambles to the other side of the tent. His face contorts. “He best not of taken that too.”

  “What are you talking about?” I say.

  “He was in Number 2 tent after the mortars hit,” Nevada says. “I left my K-pot in there and went to grab it. I saw him playing the GameCube like nothing was the matter. If he’s taken that, I—” There’s no need to finish.

  Nevada and four others drop their meals and head to Common Tent 2. I trail behind, dreading yet another trip through the blowing sand. The sun looks as though it is finally burning out. It’s turned an orange so dark it’s almost brown. The winds have died down somewhat. I can make out the vague shapes of the officers’ trailers. A light blinks on and then off again. The blue emergency lights embedded in the gravel paths between the buildings flicker, go out, and return.

  I hear Nevada scream, “Fuck, fuck, fuck,” even before I get in the outer door of the tent. The GameCube is gone too. Shit, I think, this doesn’t look good for Baba. He’ll be shot on sight. My only consolation is that with him gone I probably won’t have to interrogate the prisoners right away, because Ahmed went home to the village before the storm hit the base.

  19

  “What do you mean ‘gone,’ Private?”

  “Vanished, sir,” I almost say, into thick sand. “Along with some reading material and the video game console.”

  “Reading material? What the hell does that mean?”

  “Uh,” I say, glancing over at Sergeant Oliphant, “girlie magazines, sir.”

  “Are those allowed?” the lieutenant asks Sergeant Oliphant.

  “Not exactly, sir,” he says, his face expressionless, “but I’ve allowed the men to bend the rules as long as there are no women on base. We have an exigency plan if that ever happens.”

  “Which is?”

  “A small fire in an empty fuel drum, sir.”

  I guess the lieutenant hasn’t visited the common tents for a while. And that bit about women seems odd. There hasn’t been a female soldier here since we were operating at full strength, and even then they only came out here on transport operations. As truck drivers and the like. In for a night and out the next day. Surely no one, not even the lieutenant on his most optimistic days, still believes the base will ever be that big again.

  The lieutenant groans. “I don’t have time for this now.”

  “No, sir,” the sergeant says.

  “Have you searched the whole base, Durrant?”

  “Yes, sir.” This isn’t strictly true, but I’m sure Baba’s gone. “I doubt he’d stay on base, sir, after taking those items. The men are very angry.” This is something of an understatement. Homicidal is more like it. Boyette, after being relieved of guarding the sandstorm, went into a fit of rage upon hearing about it. The effect was so satisfying to watch, Nevada ignored the stream of racial slurs that poured out of his mouth. He finished by telling us in a voice so loud you could probably hear it over in the mess tent, “I’m going to shoot that fat-ass dune coon or kill him, one.”

  “How did he get out, Durrant?” the lieutenant asks. “Wasn’t the gate shut? Who had sentry duty?”

  I think about the insect fight. Shit, nobody was on sentry duty. This could turn out to be a monumental fuckup if the lieutenant finds out.

  “I don’t know, sir, but I’m almost certain the gate was closed. It’s been damaged by a vehicle and will not open at present.”

  “What?” he yells.

  “I reported this to Sergeant Guzman, sir.”

  “Goddammit.”

  “Here, Durrant.” Sergeant Oliphant hands me a sheet of paper. “Memorize these. You can’t read the questions off the paper while you’re interrogating the prisoners. It appears as a weakness.”

  “But—”

  “I sent Specialist Cox to find Ahmed when I learned you couldn’t find Baba.”

  My face must have fallen, because Sergeant Oliphant glares a warning at me.

  “Yes, Sarge,” I say.

  Someone knocks at the office door. The sergeant cracks it and looks outside. He turns and smiles.

  “Looks like we haven’t lost all our natives, sir.”

  Standing in the doorway behind him is a dusty-looking Ahmed with a yellow-checked cloth wrapped around his face. Cox stands beside him. He mouths the words, “GameCube.” He must have just found out. It looks as though he might burst into tears.

  “I thought you went back to the village before the storm came,” I say to Ahmed.

  He grins.

  “He got trapped in the cement factory,” Cox says in a weary voice. “I found him in the mess tent, begging for food.”

  I turn back around. The lieutenant beams at me across his desk.

  “I’ll brief you on the way to the holding cells.”

  I must look confused because he goes on.

  “The basement of the old fort.”

  “On your feet,” Sergeant Oliphant says, but he says it very quietly, his voice just above a whisper. This startles me more than if he’d shouted. I stand and follow him into the hall. He elbows me in the ribs and gives me a meaningful look.

  “Memorize the list,” he says.

  20

  Prisoner Interrogation:

  1. Determine prisoner’s name, age, and place of origin.

  2. If possible, determine militia group or organization.

  3. Discuss recruitment techniques used and the prisoner’s personal reasons for joining.

  4. Military hardware?

  5. Training?

  6. Location of org.’s HQ?

  7. Determine whether the prisoner has had previous contact with U.S. intelligence officers. (This last is underlined several times in red ink.)

  21

  Ahmed looks over and grins at me as we make our way down the crumbling mud-brick corridor. The lieutenant leads. I’ve never been in this part of the old fort. When I first arrived, Sergeant Guzman told me to keep out of here. “The walls are falling down,” he said, “and the place is full of scorpions. It ain’t a playfort, Joe.”

  This is the only time we’ve held on to captured insurgents for more than a day and, I figure, the lieutenant must not know quite what to do with them. Lieutenant Saunders always dealt with this sort of thing, and before him there was another first lieutenant who assumed responsibility for prisoners, who were in any case usually taken away by helicopter within hours. But then again, helicopters u
sually come to the scene of an IED attack if we sustain casualties. Everything about this feels wrong to me. I know the sandstorm is causing all manner of havoc, but still.

  The walls look like they might tumble over with a good kick. We round a corner and go down three steps. The ceiling drops several feet, and the lieutenant, who stands about six-three, hunches over as he walks to avoid knocking his head against the crossbeams. When my shoulder brushes a wall, it comes away muddy. The air down here feels surprisingly damp, but it’s pleasant after the dry, dust-choked air outside. The clattering echo of our boots sounds like half-hearted applause. Ahmed nudges me and points. A large rat scuttles away. What the hell does it eat down here? The flashlights make a bouncing pair of yellow balls on a wall at the end of the hallway. Lieutenant Blankenship hands me a small tape recorder.

  “Talk to the older one first,” the lieutenant says. “The other one’s upstairs with Dyson.”

  “Aren’t you going in?”

  “The manual says it’s best not to overwhelm them during the initial interview.” The lieutenant pulls a folded booklet out of his cargo pocket and flips through it. He stops and follows a passage with his finger.

  “What’s that, sir?” I ask.

  “An interrogation manual. Saunders left it behind. I think the CIA worked it up.” He continues tracing the words with his index finger. “Here we go.” The lieutenant mumbles something, and I lean in. “It says here, they’re more likely to confide in you if, after a period of solitary confinement, you attempt to establish a camaraderie. In other words, try and make friends with him.”

  “Friends?” I ask.

  Ahmed laughs. “He not your friend, sir.”

  I wonder where Ahmed picked up this “sir” business. I’ve certainly never heard him say it until today.

  “Also.” The lieutenant unclips a canteen from his belt. “Give him a drink when you take off the hood.” He gestures toward the tape recorder with the canteen. “Do you know how to work the machine?”

  I nod.

  “All right then. Come back to the office trailer when you’re finished talking with them.”

  “You’re leaving?”

  “Jesus, Durrant.” He looks up at the ceiling with a pained expression. It’s only a few inches above his head. I could swear he shudders, but it’s dark down here. I can’t be sure. “I can’t hold your hand on this one. We’ve already been hit once today. I’m needed—” He points to the ceiling. “—up there.”

  “Fine,” I say, “sir.”

  “It’s the one with the pink tape on the top.” He hands me a ring with three keys. “Just get it done.”

  I salute. Ahmed offers a limp imitation. It’s difficult to tell whether or not he’s mocking us. The lantern swings when Ahmed turns and lifts his hand. Our shadows hunch and stretch, hunch and stretch, like a shadow-play version of evolution. The lieutenant raises a finger and opens his mouth as though to say something. No one moves or speaks. The silence is as loud as a bomb blast. Something scuttles in the dark behind us. We whip our heads around and point flashlights, but it’s nothing we can see. Finally, he turns on his heels and marches off. His boots make a very lonely sound.

  I take a breath of musty air. Ahmed puts his hand on my arm. This does not reassure me.

  “Let’s do this thing,” I tell him.

  “This thing,” he says.

  He shows me his oddly perfect teeth and tries to raise his left eyebrow, a gesture I know he’s picked up from working with Cox. On his face, the effect is disconcerting, to say the least. Like hearing the national anthem sung in Chinese. I unlock the door. It’s new, or newer. A large steel door with a Judas hole about the size of a quarter. It hangs crooked on its hinges and complains loudly when I open it. I wonder if we installed this when we renovated the fort. The smell inside is so strong, I can taste it. A shiver of nausea ripples up from my belly. I spit. You will not throw up, I tell myself. Not in front of Ahmed.

  “Shit,” Ahmed explains to me, tapping his nose.

  “Thanks,” I say, “for clearing that up.”

  “You are welcome.” He smiles again.

  I prop the door open with a fallen brick. A bulb hangs from the ceiling, but I don’t see a switch. Ahmed sets the lantern on the floor. Lowering it those few feet makes a considerable difference in the lighting. Huddled in a corner is the older insurgent. He is curled up with his knees pressed against his chest. His hands and feet are bound with plastic flexcuffs and his head is covered with a black cloth hood. Jesus, I think, it’s not as though he could escape. Why did they leave him like this? I try and remember who it was that brought the prisoners in. I can guess. Either Boyette or Lopez. The man’s pants are soaked through with urine and liquid shit dribbles from a pant cuff when he moves. I pull the hood off, trying not to touch him.

  The man’s face is deeply grooved and pitted and looks surprisingly similar to the landscape around the base. His skin even appears to have a yellow cast. He blinks in the lantern light and licks his lips. A white flaky substance is caked into his beard, especially around his mouth. It looks like someone rubbed dry instant mashed potatoes into his chin. Behind me, Ahmed unscrews the cap of the canteen and I reach back for it. Instead, I hear him taking loud wet gulps.

  “Ahmed,” I say, “give some to him.”

  “This I can do,” he says.

  He steps over and pours half the canteen on the man’s face. The old man sputters and coughs but still tries to drink as much as he can catch. He laps at the water with his tongue like a thirsty dog. The sight nauseates me, even as I wish it didn’t. I want to feel something more than that. Angry. Compassionate. Something. I think of Kellen squeezing my hand. It doesn’t work.

  “Stop that,” I say, “you’ll choke him.”

  “He has dirty smell. I don’t want to touch him.”

  “Well, just—” I start, but then decide it isn’t worth bickering about. I have to work with Ahmed. Work. Jesus.

  I take my Gerber knife out and unfold the blade. As I’m bending down to cut the flexcuffs, Ahmed squeezes my shoulder. “Don’t,” he says, in a strange guttural voice.

  “Why? He’s just an old man.”

  “They have tricks,” Ahmed says.

  Fine. I stand up. My knees pop. “Ask him what his name is.” I turn on the recorder.

  Ahmed speaks so rapidly I cannot understand a word. So much for gauging the accuracy of the interpretation. I am certain of only one thing: he did more than just ask the man’s name.

  The old man stares back at us, silent. His eyes resemble dollops of dirty motor oil resting atop egg yolks. He shivers and blinks. It is immediately apparent to me that this man is very ill. We wait for a moment. Ahmed yells something. I catch the word family. Is he asking the guy’s family name? The old man arches his back until it cracks. Nothing. He closes his eyes and smiles. At first I think the door is creaking shut behind us, but no, it is the long whine of a fart. It sounds like air escaping from the pinched lip of a balloon. I take a step back. Ahmed moves forward and slaps him full in the face.

  I open my mouth to complain.

  Ahmed speaks first. “This is terrible insult to you. It cannot escape my punishment. Only worse one if he touches you with foot.”

  “Don’t do that any more.” I sound about as authoritative as a seven-year-old girl. “Ask him what insurgent group he belongs to.”

  Ahmed shouts something at him. The volume startles both me and the old man. We go through the list of questions. He responds by closing his eyes. Finally, I squat down, so the old man and I are face to face. I experiment with a smile.

  “Sick?” I ask in Arabic. “Medicine?”

  The old man coughs. It comes from deep in his chest and sounds thick and wet. He clears his throat. I wait for him to say something, raising my eyebrows. Nothing.

  Ahmed speaks softly. I assume he’s translating the words into the local dialect. The old man smiles. Ahmed smiles. It’s contagious. I smile too. Now we’re cooking with g
as. I shuffle over a little closer. Ahmed speaks again. His voice sounds very gentle.

  “Good,” I say, “much better.”

  The old man spits on me. A gob of mucus the size of a Susan B. Anthony dollar. I figure he’s been saving it up for some time since this is the first thing to come out of his mouth. It lands on the sleeve of my blouse. Ahmed and I watch as it slides onto the floor. It has the texture of chicken liver and holds its shape after it falls.

  “I can kick him. Would you like?” Ahmed looks more than happy to oblige.

  “What did you say to him?”

  “I tell him, your mother has hairy nutsack and your father shit you out of hole in his ass.”

  “Why on earth did you say that?”

  “I thought maybe more talk would come out of him.”

  “All it made come out of him is spit.” I want to wipe my sleeve on the back of Ahmed’s shirt. Instead I smear it on the wall. Jesus. “Please don’t do that again.”

  “Nasty man.” Ahmed shakes his head in disgust. “All these people nasty man. If you want, I can kick him with my hand. Right in nut sack.” He grins and makes a fist.

  “No, we can’t do it that way.”

  “It work better. This I promise to you. That is all these people understand. A kick.” Ahmed spits on the floor.

  I’ve had more than enough spitting for the day. “What do you mean, these people?”

  “Furdu. All the Furdu are nasty people.”

  “Furdu?” The word sounds familiar to me. I try to place it but cannot. “You mean insurgents?”

  “Yes.” He looks at me for a long moment. Half a dozen possible expressions move across his face. Finally he settles on the most obvious look of scheming I’ve seen in some time. “Insurgents, Furdu. These are same thing.” He slaps the backs of his hands across one another.