Youngblood

by Matt Gallagher

  We turned back to Alia, who watched us with her forehead slanted down, eyes straight and hawk-like. I decided I agreed with Snoop.

  I cupped a palm and whispered to him: “Think she understands English?”

  “Maybe,” he whispered back. “She’s smarter than I think before.”

  I took a swig of Rip It, and my right leg began to twitch. I tried to hold it in place with my hand, which only resulted in it slowing its tempo. What a world, I thought, turning the beads of my bracelet again. So much for the hooker with a heart of gold.

  “Want to know why Shaba wished to move here?” Snoop asked. “That sounded important, maybe.”

  “Ask away.” Perhaps I just need to get fired, I thought. Or quit. Let Chambers win. The staff lieutenants had a pretty nice life on Camp Independence. Hot showers. Steady meals. Air force females at the swimming pool. That was one of the good things about the military: they kept paying you whether you worked hard for it or not.

  And leave my men in the charge of a fucking psychopath? I thought. Or leave Iraq without my Combat Infantryman Badge? Fuck that.

  “LT? She say Shaba wished to stay for a beautiful woman. Rana, the only daughter of a powerful Sunni sheik. Shaba was supposed to marry her.”

  “How Romeo and Juliet of them,” I said. “How does Alia know that?”

  “She won’t say. Which means more moneys. She did say that Shaba and Rana was a big Ashuriyah secret, even after he died.” He sighed deeply. “That’s how Arabs are. All feelings.”

  “How did Shaba die?” I asked. “And did it have anything to do with that murder I mentioned?”

  Before Snoop could translate back to me, Alia raised her hands up and pantomimed a rifle, squeezing the trigger with her back fingers.

  “Like anyone else in Iraq,” Snoop said. “By the gun.”

  “You are one cunning lady,” I said. She stared back vacantly. “She remember Chambers?”

  “No. All American army men look the same to her, except the black ones. For more moneys, she will tell the whole story of Shaba and Rana. She thinks you would like to hear it. But it’s a long one.”

  “I’m sure it is.” A twitch in my temple started up, complementing the one in my leg. I had only five dollars left, and I remembered what Will had taught me about gambling once: know when to walk away. I slid over the last bill and told her to stay quiet about our meeting.

  “Al-ways,” she said in strained English, clasping her hands and bowing her head.

  I was already in the doorway when Snoop called after me.

  “LT? She wishes to know why you kept playing with your bracelet during the meeting. She asks if it’s special.”

  I spun around quickly, like a dancer. The two of them had risen from the table, and while Snoop’s face was lit with interest, Alia’s remained fixed on the ground.

  “Nothing like that,” I said. “Just something to do.”

  It took a lot of resolve not to slam the door behind me.

  13

  * * *

  Captain Vrettos went to Camp Independence that evening for a meeting. His patrol left a little after dusk. I forced myself to wait ten minutes and then walked across the outpost to dig through the files in his room.

  I looked in at the command post first. The TV was on, a ragtag, rebellious police squad discussing how to bring down a mighty drug ring. The pulse in my neck felt like a giant’s steps, but none of the guys on duty seemed to notice. All they cared about was the television screen. I backed across the empty hallway to the commander’s room, trying to look natural.

  A Master Lock held the door fast. Captain Vrettos was a bit of a paranoiac, always demanding the corner seat, asking if his name had been mentioned in gatherings he missed. I figured it had something to do with the brutality of his first deployment to Samarra, or the whispers about his “alternative lifestyle” back home. Regardless, he’d shared the number combo with the company officers in case of emergency.

  I doubted this met his definition, but it met mine.

  Dank and cluttered, the room resembled an opium den as much as it did the headquarters of a military commander. Maps of Iraq and Ashuriyah covered part of the gray Sheetrock walls; the rest was swathed in dirty uniforms, undershirts, and two woodland camo ponchos on hooks. A Rod Stewart poster from a 1992 concert in Berlin hung over the corner bed, a green cot with an orthopedic pillow and a poncho liner bunched together. The sandbagged window let nothing in; the only light came from a desk lamp that made Rod’s feathered yellow mullet gleam.

  “Christ, sir,” I said. “No wonder you’re grumpy all the time.”

  I turned to the steel desk at the foot of Captain Vrettos’ cot. During planning sessions, he’d pointed to the filing cabinets and complained about the backlog. Our outpost had been established in 2004 and every unit rotating home left junk for its replacement to sift through: intel reports, promotion and award packets, vehicle manifests, et cetera. After seven years, that junk had piled up. Some of us had suggested destroying it all, but Captain Vrettos had said no, for fear of throwing away something higher might request. So the backlog remained, our own company adding to its annals daily.

  In one of the cabinets, somewhere in the paper mines, I hoped to find a nugget about Rios or the dead local or something—anything—that would rid me of Chambers. His sermon after the goat roast had stuck with me, and though I didn’t understand the dark thoughts it’d filled me with, I knew I didn’t like them.

  It was slow going, especially when I got to the spreadsheets. I’d never been mistaken for a patient man, and avoiding file cabinets was one of the reasons I’d joined the army to begin with. My pulse eased, but the nerves stayed. What if the commander came back early? What if one of the soldiers noticed the open lock? What if Chambers went looking for me?

  Two and a half hours after breaking in, I checked my watch. The commander’s patrol would be back in an hour or so. My eyes ached and my head swam slowly, like a goldfish. Hundreds of folders and papers surrounded me in haphazard piles I’d failed to keep organized. Other than a 2008 investigation into a lieutenant pocketing funds intended for local business grants, I’d found nothing of note.

  I fought off quitting one more time and reached into the back of a new cabinet pocket, pulling out a stack of manila folders. Most were filled with equipment inventories stamped with First Cav unit designators. Near the bottom of the stack was a thin, cream-colored folder labeled “Fumble Recovery.” Three typed sworn statements slid out, all from the spring of 2006. Two were xeroxed copies, while the third was smudged with dirt and had been folded in half. Rios’ name was sprinkled throughout each.

  “Here we go,” I said.

  “Hotspur Six.” My body went rigid. I hadn’t expected a response.

  I was fucked. Done for. Caught red-handed snooping through my commander’s room. How hadn’t I heard Captain Vrettos come in? I put my hands up like I’d seen meth addicts do on television, stood up, and turned around to face my fate.

  “Hotspur Six, do you copy?”

  There was no one else in the room.

  My mental bearings snapped into place. I was still alone. Captain Vrettos was still at Camp Independence. The voice was coming from the walkie-talkie clipped to my belt loop.

  “Hotspur Six, this is Hotspur Six-Golf. You copy?” It was Dominguez.

  I took a deep breath before answering. “This is Hotspur Six.”

  “There you are. You’re needed at the front gate. Got a local here requesting to speak to an officer. I think.”

  With Captain Vrettos at Camp Independence, and the other platoon leaders on patrol, that left me. I folded the manila file in half and jammed it in a pocket.

  “There in five. You copy, CP?”

  “We copy, Hotspur Six.”

  “Send a runner to wake Snoop.”

  “Roger.”

  I cleaned my mess hastily, throwing piles of folders and papers into the desk. I uttered a silent prayer to whichever deity protected office i
nterlopers, slung my rifle, and poked my head into the hallway. It was empty. I secured the lock and walked downstairs, ignoring the urge to turn around and put faces to the watchers I felt behind me, real or imagined.

  •  •  •

  The Arabian night was cool and blue. I circled our sandstone citadel, navigating the razor wire and blast walls that surrounded it in layers. Pale blinking lights in the distance helped guide me to the front gate, beacons courtesy of the few locals wealthy enough to purchase generators. The squat two-story buildings across the dirt road were about a hundred feet and a world away; the entire block was dark and abandoned, and had been since America made this place an edge of empire.

  “It’s the sir! Ain’t it past your bedtime?”

  “What’s up, Hog.” It was my crew on shift again, mostly: Hog, Dominguez, Alphabet, and a husky private from third platoon named Batule. They stood in front of a Humvee, machine gun barrel pointing up at the muddy stars.

  “Tool, why aren’t you out with your platoon?” I asked.

  “Part of your platoon now,” Batule said. “Swapped bunks this afternoon.”

  “Who authorized that?”

  “The platoon sergeants, I guess.”

  Dominguez spoke, all monotony and undertone. “Platoon daddies talking trades. I’d expect more to come.”

  Another power play by Chambers, I thought. Even though senior enlisted managed personnel, they were supposed to run these things by their officers. It was a matter of decorum. I sized up Batule. Thick, dense, and prone to smashing things. Chambers’ ideal, no doubt.

  “Where’s this hajj?” I said, more harshly than intended. “And where is Snoop? I don’t have all night.”

  As if on cue, Haitham stumbled out of the black and into sight. The little man held a glass bottle and reeked of whiskey and filth. He wore an oversized soccer jersey, the green one of the Iraqi national team, and moved with a limp.

  “The fuck you been?” I asked. “And what happened to your leg?”

  “Molazim!”

  He dropped his bottle, which met packed dirt with a thud, and grabbed my shoulders with both hands.

  “Molazim!” he said. “Karim! Ali baba! Okht! Karim . . . keeel! Shaytan keeel Karim! Karim okht! Ali baba! Okht!”

  His rotting teeth and hell breath were too much, so I pushed him off. Haitham’s eyes bulged, and he collapsed to the ground, rocking himself back and forth, his head between his knees. I couldn’t tell if he was talking to himself or crying.

  “Mad sorry, yo!” Snoop ran out of the shadows wearing a do-rag and a fleece jacket, pulling up his basketball shorts as he made his way over. “They didn’t tell me which gate.”

  “Talk to him,” I said, pointing at Haitham. “Figure out what he wants. And say we’re sorry we shot his nephew’s goat.”

  As Snoop kneeled down next to a still-rocking Haitham, I walked over to Dominguez, who was leaning against the near side of the Humvee.

  “This place never ceases to amaze me,” I said, shaking my head.

  Dominguez spat out a wad of dip. “Sir, can I tell you something?”

  “Of course.”

  “You didn’t hear it from me.”

  “Está bien. What is it?”

  He scanned my face in the dark, and lowered his voice. “Staff Sergeant Chambers been pulling in the squad leaders, tweaking the rules of engagement.”

  “ ‘Tweaking’?”

  “You know what I mean.”

  “He can’t do that. Captain Vrettos can’t even do that. Those are set by the battalion commander.”

  “Lots of gray in those rules.”

  “Mmm.” I paused and hoped it made me sound thoughtful. “Why you telling me this, Sergeant?”

  The dip in his mouth slurred his words and puffed out his chipmunk cheeks. He spoke with memory rather than from it. “In Afghanistan, we got hit bad. Forty percent casualty rate. So we got trigger-happy. One day, during a firefight in the mountains, a little girl got killed. Shot through the forehead, brains everywhere. Worst thing I ever seen. Screaming mama, raging papa, a total shitshow. She was still holding a fucking dinosaur coloring book we’d handed out a couple of days before. No one knew who had done it, but we all blamed ourselves. Could’ve been a Taliban round, but we were sure it was us. That day destroyed the unit in a way no enemy could.” He spat out another wad of dip and started cleaning the remnants of snuff from his teeth. “Thought you should know.”

  This, I thought, this is why I need to get rid of Chambers.

  I cleared my throat. “Maybe it’s time to bring the guys together, do a refresher course on what we can and can’t do. Wouldn’t hurt anyone.”

  “Good idea, sir.”

  “Thanks. And, well. Thanks.”

  Rather than respond, Dominguez nodded to Snoop and Haitham, who were still behind us. I turned around.

  “Haitham drank too much whiskey,” Snoop said. “Talking like a crazy man. About ghosts and phantoms, the bad days in Ashuriyah.”

  “Before you came down, he was ranting about ali baba,” I said. “And he mentioned karim. What’s a karim?”

  Haitham still had his face between his knees. The terp had to lean in to hear what the drunk said, but a few seconds later he had it.

  “Karim is a person.” Snoop’s voice dropped to a strong whisper. “Karim was al-Qaeda. Dead now.”

  I felt an anger rising in my chest, red and hot like a fire poker. The looks of confusion on Alphabet’s and Batule’s faces didn’t help. “Just find out why he’s here, Snoop. Tell him if he doesn’t get to the point, we’re going to drop him off in the Shi’a part of town.”

  After a minute or so of rapid-fire Arabic, this: “Haitham wishes to go to Camp Bucca. He say jail is safer than Ashuriyah now.”

  “Snoop—”

  The little man cut me off and pointed north, toward the ancient mosque.

  “He say he will tell you everything, he swears by the shrine. But you must promise him Camp Bucca.”

  I’d heard enough. I wanted to read the sworn statements in my pocket and get to bed. “Tell him to come back tomorrow, sober. We’ll sit down and talk then.”

  I started walking toward the outpost. Then came a low, singing pop, howling with consequence.

  I dropped to the ground and waited for more fire. None came. I counted to three with my eyes shut tight. Some combination of angel and instinct induced me toward the Humvee for cover.

  “Contact to the front!” Dominguez shouted. He’d dropped to one knee and held his rifle at the low ready. He swung his night vision goggles down from his helmet. “Anyone get eyes on?”

  “Negative, Sergeant!” Hog said. He’d somehow made it up the Humvee’s turret to the machine gun.

  “Scan the rooftops and windows across the road, Hog—fucking sniper.”

  “Roger, Sergeant.”

  “Tool, report.”

  “Got nothing.” He was somewhere in front of the vehicle, in the vicinity of the gate.

  I was racking my brain for what the manuals said the platoon leader needed to do in situations like this. I drew a blank. “Snoop?” I asked into the air. “You okay?”

  “Yeah, LT,” he said from somewhere on the other side of the vehicle. “Haitham, too—he’s with me.”

  That was when Alphabet started gurgling. He sounded like a broken sprinkler back home. But it wasn’t anything that technical or complex. Just blood spilling out of a throat.

  Dominguez shined a white light onto Alphabet. He’d been shot three feet in front of me and his legs were bucking, one at a time. Left, right. Left, right. Left, right.

  “CP!” I shouted into my walkie-talkie. “This is Hotspur Six. Casualty at the front gate, a friendly! Request medevac immediately!”

  The voice that came back was incredulous. “A casualty?”

  “Yes, did I fucking stutter?”

  A blur of barking orders rushed past me.

  “Tool. Third platoon is on their way down. Take point and cl
ear the buildings across the road. Fire at anything that fucking moves.”

  “Roger, Sergeant.”

  It was Chambers. He slung his rifle and grabbed Alphabet by a body armor strap, dragging him toward the blast walls.

  “Hog, stay up there and provide cover. Fire at anything that fucking moves.”

  “Roger, Sergeant!”

  “Dominguez. You and the terp help me with this. Sir, get a medic down here. Lieutenant Porter, that means you.”

  I still held the walkie-talkie in my hand, but my mind was stew, so it took me a second to process what I needed to do. Then I did it.

  Chambers got Alphabet’s body behind the barriers before anyone could catch up to them. A group of twenty hustling bodies and jangling gear emerged from the outpost. Third platoon. They followed Batule, bounding and covering into the black night. The mechanical swerving of Hog in the turret sounded like a garbage truck eating trash, and it reminded me that there was still a sniper out there. I ran behind the blast walls to check on my soldier.

  Doc Cork was there. He’d managed to stop the bleeding with some gauze pads and adhesive tape. Both Snoop and Dominguez were on their knees, holding Alphabet’s shoulders with one hand and his palms with the other. I asked Doc Cork if I could help, but he shook me off and stuck an IV into Alphabet’s arm. I wasn’t sure what to do with my hands, so I leaned down and stroked Alphabet’s left calf.

  You joined to be a part of something, I thought. I joined to believe in something. Not that different. Not the same, but not that different. I wish I’d told you that.

  Then I told him that.

  His body armor had been stripped and his breathing was low and labored and his legs weren’t bucking anymore. Chambers ran up holding a litter, and he and Dominguez prepped Alphabet for movement to the landing zone while Doc Cork held the IV bag high.

  I grabbed a litter handle to help carry it. It was lighter than I’d expected. The bird had a hard time landing in the field behind the outpost; it was whipping up too much dust. Chambers produced a pair of ChemLights from a cargo pocket and guided the pilot down. After the helicopter landed, collected Alphabet, and took off for Camp Independence, Chambers remained in the field. I walked over to him, kicked-up dust falling down on us in a dry rain. He was in his undershirt, tapping his arm tattoos with the ChemLights as if he wanted to inject neon into his bloodstream. The black skulls on his arm throbbed in the dark, little halos of fluorescent green.