Sons of War

by Nicholas Sansbury Smith

  “Why the hell would he tell me to do either of those things?” Vinny asked.

  “He wouldn’t, dumb ass … although I remember a guy that was forced to drink rat poison back in Naples after one of the captains caught him fucking his wife.” Yellowtail took another drag. “That was after they shot his balls off, of course.”

  “Jesus, who did that to him?” Doberman asked.

  Yellowtail looked to Vinny. “Your old man.”

  “Yeah, right.”

  Vinny narrowed his gaze, but Yellowtail turned away, leaving the question to linger. Had his dad really done that? He shook the thought away, not wanting to ask, since his gut told him it was true.

  It was a good reminder not to get sideways with a made man. As one of the youngest up-and-coming soldiers in the family, Vinny already knew better than to cross anyone with a button. In the world of La Cosa Nostra, betrayal was the worst thing.

  Rats got treated like rats.

  “I’m gonna keep lookin’,” Vinny said. “Doberman, maybe you want to make yourself useful and come with.”

  Doberman got off the bench and stretched his tattooed arms, yawning. “All right, bro.”

  Yellowtail relaxed on the bench, enjoying his cigarette and the sights.

  Storm clouds rolled across the horizon, but they were too far away for the city to see any rain. A little reprieve from the blazing sun would have been nice, though.

  Vinny took off his sweat-rimmed track jacket as he walked.

  The whine of sirens drowned out the music blaring from speakers across the beach, and a convoy of squad cars sped down the street.

  “Man, this is worse than Naples ever was,” Doberman said.

  Vinny shrugged. He remembered some bad times in the slums. Seeing the military and the cops out and about wasn’t unusual there. Hell, in Rome, you had cops, soldiers, or the Royal Guard at every major street corner, especially around the historical landmarks and financial districts.

  Now America was getting a taste of his former life—the life his family had fled. He couldn’t deny that things were spiraling out of control.

  Doberman seemed to be thinking the same thing. “I’m worried LA’s going to get hit by those terrorists,” he said. “I don’t get how the government still doesn’t know who’s doing the shit.”

  “I think they’re hiding something,” Vinny said. “But honestly, I’m worried about a war more than I am terrorist attacks.”

  “True enough, man. If this country splits up like that, it’ll kill millions. Maybe …” Doberman got really still.

  “What, dude?”

  Doberman pulled out his phone and grinned. “I think that’s the girl.”

  Vinny followed his gaze toward a group of high-school-age kids sitting on blankets in the sand. There were six girls and one boy.

  Perfect, Vinny thought.

  “Come on,” he said. “And I’ll do the talking.” His heart beat like a tom-tom as he crossed the bike path to the sand.

  Doberman stuffed his headphones in his pocket and hurried to catch up. “Don’t you think we should tell Yellowtail?” he called out.

  “Nope.”

  Vinny wanted to do this on his own, to prove himself, despite knowing how wrong it was. Besides, there was no way his uncle would kill the girl; he knew that. Kids and women were off limits. The only exception was for prostitution. The mob was easing into the sex trade, just as it had done with drugs.

  He hesitated when he saw the dark-haired girl sitting on the blanket, laughing with her friends. What if his uncle did plan to sell her off? Her life would be over. She wouldn’t be much different from the customers they sold drugs to, many of whom ended up junkies.

  A soldier didn’t question orders. And that was what he wanted more than anything: to earn his button—to become a made man in the Moretti family.

  He pushed aside the feelings of guilt and put on his best smile.

  “Well, look at this beautiful group,” Vinny said as he walked up.

  The girls turned, eyeing him suspiciously.

  Doberman raised a hand and grinned like a nerd.

  “I hear this is where the Italians hang out,” Vinny said. “Is that right?”

  The girls all looked at each other in turn, and the boy, a dark-haired kid as skinny as a beanpole, smiled.

  “Well, who are these two hunks?” he said.

  The girls giggled.

  Vinny ignored the gay kid and looked at the girls in turn, avoiding Carly’s gaze. He knew how the game worked.

  “So, is this or isn’t this where the Italians hang out?” he asked again.

  “Only one Italian here,” Carly said. “You’re lookin’ at her.”

  “Hey, I’m half,” said a girl wearing a yellow bikini.

  A girl with braids laughed. “You have blue eyes and blond hair, Jennifer.”

  Jennifer shrugged. “I’m still half.”

  “Italian blood is Italian blood,” Doberman said.

  “He’s right, and us Italians got to stick together,” Vinny said. “There aren’t many of us in this city.”

  “Are you from Italy?” Jennifer asked. “You have an accent.”

  “Born and raised in Roma,” Vinny lied.

  Doberman smiled. “We came here to be movie stars, like everybody else in this town.”

  The girls all laughed, and the boy stood and put his hands on his hips.

  “I don’t know about you two,” he said, looking at the sky and striking a pose, “but I’m going to be a star.”

  Doberman muttered something under his breath, but Vinny grinned and said, “To be honest, the star of this group is you.” He set his dark eyes on Carly.

  Her cheeks flushed, and the other girls giggled some more.

  “What’s your name, gorgeous?” Vinny asked.

  Carly gave him another suspicious look, her cheeks still pink.

  “What’s your name?” she asked, cocking a brow.

  “Vinny, and this is my boy Doberman,” Vinny said. “But don’t worry, he doesn’t usually bite.”

  Doberman gave another hangdog grin. He didn’t have to pretend to be a nerd.

  “Mind if we sit?” Vinny asked. “I got something that might help take our minds off the shit happening out there.”

  The girls whispered to themselves while Carly studied Vinny. She seemed smarter than the others, more suspicious, which made him nervous.

  “You can sit,” she finally said.

  Vinny and Doberman both took a seat on the blankets.

  “Well?” Jennifer flipped her braids back and leaned in. “What you got for us?”

  Doberman pulled out a small bag of coke.

  “Best stuff in Long Beach,” he said.

  “Ooh, just what I need!” Jennifer said.

  For the next hour, they did a few lines and hung out in the scorching sun, talking and relaxing. Vinny chatted with Carly a bit but didn’t come on too strong. Just enough to get her curious. He could tell by the way she was looking at him now that she was interested.

  All he needed was the right time to suggest they get out of here.

  It came an hour later, with the wail of more sirens.

  “Who wants to take this party somewhere else?” Vinny asked. “We got a safe place in Long Beach and some more blow.”

  Carly looked at him again, but the scrutinizing gaze was gone. She was relaxed, and her sheepish smile told him she was all his now.

  Normally, Vinny would have gotten that little rush of adrenaline that teenage boys felt when they knew they were going to get some action, but his gut was a lump of anxiety and guilt.

  “Sure, Vinny, why not?” Carly said with a trusting smile.

  -7-

  The wind was a real son of a bitch, stirring up dust around the refugee camp.
Ronaldo had endured a grueling twelve-hour shift walking the fences.

  There wasn’t much out there but sand, cactus, and the strange green-barked paloverde trees. The open terrain was located nearly a hundred miles east of Phoenix, and their job was to protect the refugees and aid workers—from whom or what, he had no idea.

  His unit continued to wear their CBRN suits despite the low risk of radiation poisoning this far out. The real threat was in the dead zone. It would be some time before the crews could completely stop the release of radioactive materials from the destroyed reactors, because the containment vessels were compromised.

  The bombs had been designed and placed to take out all three reactors. It was a catastrophe that would set the United States back decades.

  Ronaldo walked back to the mound of sandbags, raising a hand to the rest of the Desert Snakes, who stood guard inside the fort. Bettis had caught up with them after being held back to lead prayer meetings with some refugees looking for a little light in a dark world.

  After finding the sick people in the church, Ronaldo and the team were on edge. Even Bettis let a few curses fly about the atrocity. No one seemed to know who had locked the civilians in there or why, but Ronaldo had his own theories, based on what the woman had told him about the soldiers.

  “’Sup, Salvatore?” Tooth said.

  “Same shit, different hellhole,” Ronaldo replied.

  “This isn’t hell,” Bettis said. “Hell is much worse, brother.”

  “If you say so,” Tooth said.

  Marks nodded and held up a hand at an approaching pickup truck. There was plenty of traffic, even at seven in the evening.

  Tooth checked the driver and then waved him through as several other marines opened the gate behind them. The vehicle drove into the camp, taking a right down a road that curved around the maze of medical tents. Boxes of medical supplies filled the bed of the vehicle.

  Ronaldo wiped the grit off his visor and moved into the enclosed sandbag post.

  “I’d kill for a cold beer and a burger right about now,” Tooth said.

  “I’d settle for some water,” Marks said. “And some air conditioning would be really fucking nice.”

  Ronaldo didn’t want to think about all the things he wanted, only the things he needed. And only one thing came to mind: getting home to his family.

  “Your shift’s up, boys,” said a voice from outside.

  Tooth hopped over the mound of sandbags. “’Bout time!”

  The next shift of marines had shown up to relieve the four of them, and Ronaldo grabbed his gear.

  Marks, Tooth, Bettis, and Ronaldo made their way through the maze of white tents, pausing to let four medical personnel carry a stretcher with a man squirming on it. He coughed up blood over the edge and groaned as they hauled him to another tent.

  Ronaldo said a short prayer and saw Bettis bow his head. The guy was going to need all the help he could get. Most of the people in this zone of tents were dying slow deaths. The only thing that could be done for them was to ease their pain with drugs.

  He thought of the woman in the church and stopped to look at the numbering on the tents.

  “What’s up?” Marks asked.

  “I want to stop by and see that lady I carried out of the church,” Ronaldo said. “Go on ahead. I’ll meet you guys back at the barracks.”

  Tooth continued trudging along, and Marks gave a nod and followed. Bettis lingered and asked if he could join Ronaldo.

  “Sure, brother,” Ronaldo said.

  With their M4 carbines slung over their CBRN suits, the two marines set off. It didn’t take long to find the tent Ronaldo remembered. There was no clearing barrel outside, but Bettis and Ronaldo dropped their magazines and each checked that the other’s weapon was empty.

  Inside, several medical staff in protective suits attended the sick. A doc wearing black-rimmed glasses looked up from a patient.

  “Can I help you, soldiers?”

  “Marines,” Ronaldo said.

  “Pardon me?”

  “Ah, never mind,” Ronaldo muttered. “We’re here to find someone.”

  The doctor straightened and walked over, his gaze flitting to their guns.

  “These people are already terrified of weapons after what happened at that church,” he said.

  “They’re clear,” Bettis said, holding his weapon so the doctor could see through the ejection port.

  “Thanks,” the doctor said. “What are you here for?”

  “To see a woman I carried out of the church,” Ronaldo said. “About fifty, dark hair with some gray. She had a rosary.”

  “Oh, Cindy.”

  “I never caught her name,” Ronaldo said.

  “Well, if it is Cindy, then you’d better hurry.” The doctor pointed to a bed at the end of the tent, where a nurse was changing a woman’s bedding.

  “I’m going to check on some other people,” Bettis said.

  Ronaldo steeled himself as he made his way down the aisle, eyes ahead to afford the patients some privacy. Coughing, moaning, and sobbing filled the enclosed space. But these weren’t soldiers or marines. They were innocent people, caught in the cross fire of a war that still didn’t make sense. Shadowy forces had the country tearing itself apart from within.

  Fucking coward terrorists, he thought.

  When he got to Cindy’s bed, she was lying on her side, curled up in a fetal position. The nurse finished changing the bed, holding in her gloved hands a balled-up sheet covered in blood and feces.

  Ronaldo moved out of the way to let her pass. When she was gone, he bent down next to Cindy. Her eyes were open, staring at nothing.

  “Cindy, my name is Ronaldo Salvatore,” he said. “I got you out of that church. Thought I’d come see how you’re doing.”

  Her eyes slowly tracked over to meet his. A whisper came between raspy breaths.

  “What is it?” he asked.

  She tried to speak but broke into a coughing fit. Ronaldo moved back slightly as flecks of blood hit his suit. She reached out toward him, but when he went to take her hand, she lowered her fingers toward the floor.

  Ronaldo bent down and picked up the rosary. He put it in her hand and then wrapped his hand around hers. He knelt there by her side for several minutes until her raspy breathing slowed. No stranger to death, he knew the process.

  He held her hand, met her eyes, and repeated the rosary while she moved her lips and whispered. Within twenty minutes, her hand fell limp in his.

  He closed his eyes, said a final prayer, and reached down to close her eyelids. The same doctor from before walked over with Bettis.

  “She’s gone,” Ronaldo said.

  The doctor slowly shook his head, and Bettis got down on his knees to pray. When they had finished, they grabbed their weapons and stepped back into the heat just as a mechanical chopping sounded in the distance and grew louder.

  Lights crossed the darkening horizon where an Osprey helicopter came hurtling through the sky. It landed somewhere on the western edge of the camp.

  Ronaldo lost himself in his thoughts on the way back to their tent. His mind was on his mother, who reminded him of Cindy. She had died a decade ago from a heart attack—a crushing event that he still hadn’t recovered from. He had never known his dad, who left home when he was just a boy.

  A gunshot pulled him from his trance.

  Bettis froze, and both men unslung their rifles, palming magazines in as they took off running toward shouts in the distance.

  Ronaldo shouldered his rifle, keeping his muzzle pointed at the ground as he scanned for hostiles in the maze of tents. Bettis took point and stopped just before they reached the motor pool. Humvees, MRAPs, vans, and covered trucks, with army, Marine Corps, and AMP markings, filled the space.

  On the other side was the tent where his platoon was
holed up. Bettis and Ronaldo watched for movement in the motor pool. Seeing none, they ran to the first line of vehicles for cover.

  More shouting guided them to the last row, where civilian cars and vans were lined up. Rounding a van, they got a view of the altercation.

  A group of AMP soldiers faced off with a smaller cluster of marines. Ronaldo waited, listening to the men shouting at one another. He couldn’t hear everything, but he got the gist of it.

  An AMP soldier had buttstroked a marine with his rifle outside the front entrance to one of the tents. Before the other marines could respond, the AMP pogue fired a round into the air.

  Ronaldo prepared to move, then hesitated. This wasn’t a random fight. It was a standoff between a group of marines and an even bigger group of AMP soldiers.

  “Put down your weapons!” one of the AMP soldiers shouted. The dozen-strong group closed in around the outnumbered marines. Ronaldo could now see that it was Tooth and three others, who also had their rifles up and ready.

  Ronaldo didn’t see Marks or half the other guys from his platoon.

  “Who’s the cowboy?” shouted a voice.

  Lieutenant Castle came barging out of a tent wearing nothing but a pair of camo pants and his boots, half his face still covered in shaving cream.

  “What in the unholy fuck is going on?” he shouted at the AMP soldiers. Then he saw the downed marine and ran over to help. Bullets ripped into the dirt between him and the fallen man, nearly hitting Castle’s boot.

  Resisting the urge to fire back, Ronaldo kept his position behind the front passenger wheel well of the van. Bettis moved to another vehicle two rows up. Both did what they were trained to do in situations like this: aimed at the head of the highest-ranking adversary, a colonel leading the group of AMP soldiers.

  “Drop it, marine,” said a voice nearby.

  Ronaldo searched for the source and found it too late. He cursed under his breath but kept his aim on the colonel as an AMP soldier approached him from behind the van. Another soldier had a gun on Bettis’s back. The AMP pogue behind Ronaldo prodded him to put his weapon down, but he just shook his head and held his aim steady.

  The colonel was a man named Doyle Cronin, whom Ronaldo had seen only in passing. He pointed an M9 pistol at Lieutenant Castle.