Warlord: Dervish

by Tony Monchinski

  Bronson and Ahmed spoke quietly to one another while Jason lay on his mattress. He was waiting to hear the four men but they did not come in while he was awake.

  Jason wondered about them. He’d known some special operators in Iraq, spooks. They never dressed like other soldiers. They were never armed like other soldiers. And they never acted like other soldiers. They seemed to follow their own rules and a lot of mystery and resentment surrounded them for it. Envy too, Jason had to admit. Those guys were considered the black-ops motherfuckers who got shit done.

  Jason wondered if the four were spook types. He couldn’t imagine. The one called Snork seemed more a common thug than a highly trained special operative. They apparently all knew each other from outside this place. Jason figured it was best to have as little to do with them as possible.

  After awhile, the lights in the ceiling dimmed and Jason lay listening to the gentle hum of the ventilation system. He turned over on his mattress and looked out across the barracks. The Israeli woman was under her blanket with her pillow over her head. The guy with the eyes was sitting up on his mattress several bunks away, his back to the support. Jason wondered if the man was going to sleep, if he was even tired. Maybe Bronson was right. Maybe the guy was crazy.

  Bronson and Ahmed had both stopped talking beneath him. Jason didn’t need to look to know both were asleep.

  Ahmed was probably correct about them being underground. Jason wondered if they were in the United States. Wherever here was, he was just glad to be here, away from that other place, away from…Best not to think about him, Jason told himself. He wanted to avoid nightmares.

  He thought about his students. He’d taught for fifteen years. High School. High school was a cool age. They had one foot in adolescence and the other in adulthood. By the time they graduated they had hair on their faces, they had boobs, but they were still kids. He always thought about them that way too, kids. Fifteen years was long enough for a kid he’d taught when the kid was a senior to be in her thirties now. Jeez. Sometimes they stopped by to visit the school and see him. He was always surprised. He remembered them the way they looked in ninth or twelfth grade.

  They always thanked him. Told him how much they’d learned from him. That he made history come alive, his passion for the subject. A few of them had gone on to become teachers themselves, one a PhD in History teaching in a university. That was cool. They’d rallied on his behalf when the school district moved to dismiss him, arguing that not everything could be quantified and not everything that could meant anything. They’d done what they could: letters, emails, showing up at board meetings. In the end, it hadn’t helped.

  And then he thought about the car full of people he had destroyed. It was the first time he could remember doing so clearly since the incident itself.

  He’d killed them all. That was on him and always would be. That poor little girl. Jason hadn’t wanted her to suffer. He’d have to live with that. He remembered the days and weeks leading up to it. He’d found himself dwelling in the past more than the present then. Thinking about stupid shit like being a kid back at home in the snow. Thinking about stuff he shouldn’t be thinking about, stuff it did no good to think about…like Rudy, like Aspen. He wished he could see Espada and Tucker again, see the Gift. He wanted to tell Mook that he was right to be eye-balling him all that time. He wanted to tell his sergeant he was in a better place now, mentally.

  What about this place, physically? The verdict was still out on that.

  Did he want to see Susanne? What could he say to her? I’m sorry I ruined your life. You didn’t know you were marrying a loser. You didn’t know the father of your children was a zero. It’d be good to see their kids, to know they were doing okay. He imagined he was a huge disappointment to them too. They’d been too young to understand mortgage payments and foreclosure notices, threatening emails from the bank. They were kids. It was simple to them. Daddy was supposed to be around, to love them and do shit with them. And when he’d lost his job he’d forgotten what it meant to be a father, a man. He’d brooded and sulked and withdrawn, ignoring them, ignoring Susanne. That was unforgiveable.

  If they’d known what he’d done to that little girl and her family in the car…

  After awhile Jason fell asleep, and when he did, he had no disturbing dreams.

  He opened his eyes sometime later, the lights in the barracks muted. He lay there considering the ceiling, wondering what had woken him. Feint snores punctuated the silence. Maybe the ventilation system had cycled off. Jason rolled over on his mattress and looked out across the aisle.

  There was nothing to see. Shadows among the gloom.

  He missed Rudy. The kid shouldn’t have died like that. Fucking nineteen years old.

  The shadows were moving. Something was making its way down the aisle.

  Someone.

  It came quickly and quietly, bent towards the ground. As the figure neared, Jason saw it was Snork. The chubby bastard moved in his bare feet, padding silently across the floor. Light glinted off something in his hand. At the exact moment Jason’s sleep-addled mind registered it was a steak knife from the mess hall, Snork launched himself onto the sleeping Israeli woman—

  Onto what should have been the sleeping woman.

  Snork flailed at the blanket and the pillows stuffed under it, propped so as to lend the illusion of someone nested there. He grunted in frustration and anger as a shadow rose behind him. Before Jason fully understood what was happening, the shadow was on Snork, the Israeli wrapping one wiry arm around her would-be assailant’s neck from behind, her other hand grasping the back of Snork’s neck, pressing it forward into her forearm. Snork, taken unawares—

  this was no special operator, Jason’s mind registered

  –dropped the knife—

  definitely not

  —and started to struggle, but the Israeli’s choke hold was solid. As Jason watched, she got a leg around Snork’s thigh, the two of them collapsing onto the disheveled bed, the Israeli on top, her grip never relenting, Snork choking.

  Jason wondered if she would kill him.

  Another figure came down the aisle, faster than Snork, not concerned about any noise it made. Jason could see it was one of the gasping men’s buddies, the young guy who’d made the play on the Israeli with Snork earlier. He wondered how the Israeli would deal with two of them, but the situation never got that far.

  Bronson’s crazy-eyed man stepped from between two bunks, one hand clapping over Snork’s friend’s mouth, bringing him up short. Crazy-eyes’ other hand went to the man’s throat, and Jason could see the knife Snork had been wielding in his hand. The look in Snork’s friend’s eyes was unmistakable: he was petrified.

  When Snork stopped struggling, the Israeli dragged him off her bed and dumped him in the aisle. “Toda raba.” She thanked Crazy-eyes.

  The man nodded. “Shalom.”

  Jason cocked his ear and heard Crazy-eyes speaking to the man he held at knife point. “Take your friend and go on back over to your side.” Crazy-eyes took his hands off the guy and the young man did as he was told. Snork was too big and heavy for his friend to carry, so he gripped Snork’s wrists and dragged him across the linoleum. Jason watched them until they melted into the dark on the other side of the room.

  Jason could just make out Crazy-eyes seated in his original position in the dark, on his mattress, his back to the support. The Israeli had disappeared somewhere else, and Jason figured she’d struck out for some deeper recess of the room. He could appreciate her caution, although he didn’t think Snork or his friend would try to attack the woman again this night. He wondered if Snork was dead.

  He lay flat on his bunk and stared up towards the ceiling once more. His heart was racing and all he’d been was a spectator, not a participant in the late night drama.

  “Jay. You awake?”

  It was Bronson, speaking in little more than a whisper.

  “Yeah.”

  “You seen that shit?”
/>   “Yeah.”

  “Now you see why I wanted to sleep near one another, right?”

  “Yeah.”

  Bronson fell silent.

  Jason studied the dark above his head, thinking he would not fall asleep again anytime soon. He waited and listened for the ventilation system to kick in. When it did, its steady hum quickly lulled him away.

  For the second day in a row, Jason was the last to wake and enter the mess hall. Bronson and Ahmed were at their table, as were two of the women, the Israeli and the pretty one.

  “Jason, Hahn.” Bronson said by way of introductions to the Israeli as Jason sat down. “Hahn, Jason.” Jason said hello to the woman, who nodded but said nothing.

  “And I’m Deirdre.” The other woman held her hand out and Jason shook it. “We were neighbors for awhile I believe.”

  “Yeah.” Jason was pleased to hear her British accent. “I thought you were her.” He nodded towards the gruff-looking woman who still sat alone.

  “Good heavens no,” replied Deirdre. “I was wondering what you were talking to her about yesterday.”

  “She wasn’t very friendly.”

  “You don’t know who she is, do you?”

  “No.”

  “Abu-Ghraib.”

  “What?” Jason thought maybe he hadn’t heard right.

  “Her name is Letitia. She was one of the guards torturing prisoners.”

  “No shit,” Jason shook his head. “That was years ago, wasn’t it?”

  “The one with the dogs?” Bronson asked.

  “Yes, but not the one in the photos.”

  “Shit. So, what’s with them?” Bronson nodded his head towards the four men who sat together again.

  “They’re Redtide. Your government calls them independent contractors. They’re mercenaries.”

  “How you know that?”

  “They killed thirty seven civilians in a shootout in downtown Baghdad.”

  “Thirty seven.” Jason looked at the food on his plate. “Jesus Christ.”

  “They went on a shooting rampage when they were fired upon. Ambush. There used to be five of them.”

  “Well, lady—Deirdre,” Jason corrected himself, “you seem to know why everyone’s here.”

  “I don’t know why you’re here.” Jason wasn’t sure if she was being short with him or if it was her clipped intonation. “I don’t know why you’re here,” Deirdre said to Bronson, “or you,” to Ahmed, “or—” she looked at Hahn, who glanced up briefly from her tray, “or you for that matter.”

  “Why’s he here?” Jason referred to Crazy-eyes. The man was sitting in the same place as the day before.

  “His name is Aguilera. You haven’t heard of him?”

  “No.” Jason looked at Bronson, who stuck out his lower lip and shrugged.

  Deirdre leaned in, though Aguilera was seated far enough away he couldn’t hear anything she said. “Private Aguilera was court martialed by the United States’ Navy.”

  “He a seaman?” asked Bronson.

  “Marine.”

  “The navy signs their checks,” noted Jason.

  “Discharged,” added Deirdre.

  “What’d he do?” Bronson wondered.

  “He and two other soldiers…” Deirdre explained quietly “…were breaking into Iraqi family’s homes. Executing them. The night they were captured, Aguilera was sitting in a house with the bodies. The other chaps were raping one of the daughters.”

  “Raping one of the daughters, huh?” Disgust in Bronson’s voice.

  “Well, Aguilera maintains he had nothing to do with the rape. But he freely admits to the murders. And the mutilations.”

  “Mutilations?”

  “He did things to the bodies…”

  Bronson looked at Jason: things?

  “…that was part of his defense actually. His lawyer said Aguilera was tinkering with the bodies while the other two men were raping the girl.”

  “That’s all sorts of fucked up.” Bronson scowled.

  Jason didn’t like what he was hearing, and he didn’t like it because he believed it. “So,” he asked Deirdre, the challenge in his voice evident, “why are you here?”

  “I guess I wrote some things somebody didn’t like.”

  “You a reporter or somethin’?” Bronson asked her.

  “I was.”

  “You were? What happened?”

  “Well, I appear to be in some Kafka-esque limbo at the moment. As do we all.”

  “We’re here for a mission,” Bronson sounded certain. “We do what we supposed to do, we goin’ home in a week.”

  Deirdre did not reply.

  “I’m goin’ home in a week,” Bronson added, not as certain, trying to convince himself.

  “I don’t know about the rest of you,” Jason admitted, “but if I were putting together a team—some kind of, I don’t know—some kind of fucking A-team, I don’t think I’d put me in it. I mean, you—” Jason looked at Hahn “—you look like the real deal—” he was thinking about the way Hahn had handled herself the night before “—but, I mean, the rest of us?”

  The Israeli hadn’t understood a word he’d said. She spoke to Ahmed, who didn’t look thrilled when he replied, translating for her.

  “What about them?” Bronson meant the four mercenaries.

  “Maybe those guys are as bad ass as they think they are…” Jason considered it “…but I don’t think so. We’re not here because we’re mighty warriors or somethin’.”

  “Then what?” demanded Bronson.

  “This is punishment,” Deirdre pronounced.

  “Punishment?” the black man spat.

  “Punishment.”

  “Nah, I don’t—” Bronson started but Jason interrupted him.

  “I shot up a family at a check point. Killed them all.” He left out the part about the little girl. “How bout you, Hahn, what’d you do?”

  Ahmed relayed the question to the Israeli. Hahn’s one word answer didn’t need a translation. “Gaza.”

  “You’re a muckraker or something,” Jason said to Deirdre, who nodded, “and you,” he turned to Bronson, “what’re you guilty of, Bronson?”

  “I ain’t guilty a’ shit.”

  “Yeah, right.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “Relax, Bronson. It’s not supposed to mean nothing. Nah, you know what? It’s supposed to mean—what ever reason we’re here, we’re here for a reason.”

  “Wherever here is,” Deirdre turned her head, taking in the cafeteria.

  “I don’t know where we are…” Bronson sounded like he was trying to calm down, having realized he’d overreacted. “But my ass is a long way from that Military Entrance Processing Center where I talked to that fuckin’ colonel. The fuck was I thinking?”

  “We’re expendable,” wagered Deirdre. “We’ve each of us embarrassed this government or did something that makes it very convenient should we disappear. We’re easy to write off.”

  “No,” Bronson whispered.

  “Private Jason-whoever killed in the line of duty,” she continued, undeterred. “Specialist Bronson-so-and-so detained and killed by insurgents—”

  “Shut up.”

  “So simple really. I’d bet our families have already been informed of our demise.”

  “I said shut up!” Bronson stood at the table and looked like he was ready to run away. Somebody at the merc’s table hooted.

  “Sit down,” Jason told him. “Sit down, Bronson.”

  Bronson turned, glaring at the mercenaries. Jason reached out and tugged the man’s arm. Bronson pulled his arm away but settled himself back on the bench.

  “Bronson.” Jason said the name and laughed. “I fuckin’ love it.”

  “Like Charlie Bronson, yes?” inquired Ahmed.

  “Like Charles Bronson,” Bronson nodded, the hostility gone from his voice.

  “You give yourself that name?” Jason asked him.

  “Nah, main. Someo
ne else did.”

  “Well,” Jason put down his fork and turned on the bench. “I bet there’s a story there.”

  As they had the day before, the double doors in the middle of the room flew open, disgorging the taser-armed twins. They proceeded to their position and when they were standing rigidly in place Major Hess entered the room.

  Unlike the day before, Jason did not stand.

  Hess snapped his fingers and a screen rolled down from the ceiling on the wall behind them. Without any introduction, Hess launched into his speech. “Allow me to introduce you to some of the nastiest individuals you may ever meet.”

  A picture of a man appeared on the screen.

  “Khan…” muttered Deirdre.

  “This is Abdul Qadeer Khan. Pakistani national. Dr. A.Q. Khan is a nuclear scientist and metallurgical engineer. He helped usher Pakistan into the nuclear age. That country, incidentally, is now the fourth largest nuclear power in the world, having surpassed the Brits and the French.”

  “Who are the top three?” Bronson asked and Deirdre whispered back: “The Yanks, Russia, and China.”

  “Day-em. Who knew the Chinese?”

  Jason was staring at the picture of Khan on the screen when an image flashed through his mind. A black kid’s face, gold tooth. He blinked his eyes and the kid was gone.

  Major Hess was discussing Khan’s connections to the worldwide spread of nuclear weapons. “The United States government considers Doctor Khan—” Hess’ voice dripped with thinly veiled contempt as he spoke the man’s title and name—“a serious nuclear proliferation risk. Allegations of his sales or his attempted sales of nuclear weapons-grade fissile material have tied the doctor to North Korea, Libya, Iran and the Taliban.

  “After a few years of house arrest, Khan is free to roam around his native Pakistan and is currently believed to have his hands in the development of next-gen plutonium bombs.”

  “This—”

  A new face appeared on the screen and this time it was Jason’s turn to whisper: “al-Sadr.”