“That’s chemotherapy, you idiot!” came another American’s reply.
So, dammit, David thought, he could sure as hell learn to stay in the fight, to do what he’d been trained for. For now, however, his letter to Melissa would have to be painfully typed out on a computer, then sent to the unit censor, since e-mail contact with home had been temporarily suspended because of terrorist hackers who’d penetrated the U.S. Army’s computer network. The physical effort of having to type with his left hand afforded him much more time than he usually had to think about what he wanted to say to her and, most important, what to leave out. Besides, he knew he’d have to lead into it — cushion the news of his savage wound.
Dear Melissa,
Greetings from nowhere. This has to be the most forsaken place on earth. God was punishing somebody when he made this sun-baked jumble of rocks and dirt. Our unit G2 tells us it’s about the size of Texas. I asked him how many square miles of water there are and he just laughed. Zip. Zero. Nada. You see a tree here, you practically die of shock. And the people. I keep thinking when I was a kid — bashing the fridge to close it and saying there was too much damn food in there. Dad got after me for cussing and tore a strip off me for saying there was too much food — how great it was to live in a country where I could say that. “Poor” doesn’t even begin to describe the people here. A lot of them haven’t even got shoes, sandals — anything. Had one of them, a scout, on one of our missions. It was 35 degrees, just a tad above freezing, and he had nothing on his feet. Least we didn’t have to do that at—
He was about to write “Fort Benning,” but censored it himself and instead put “camp.”
I can’t like them, though. Remember how all the media used to talk about Northern Alliance against the Taliban? Well, at the end of the day I wouldn’t give you a dime for any of them. Most of them are still nothing but mercenaries — sell their own mother. Change sides like they change shirts — which, come to think of it, isn’t a good analogy. I’ve never seen one of them wash, let alone change. But you get what I mean — no loyalty at all to one side or the other. It’s all filthy lucre. Sort of like our Congress — ha, ha! On the other hand, I know we have to be here. After 9/11 we had no choice but to hunt the Taliban and al Qaeda down. And then go get Saddam. You remember the day one of our guys climbed up on Hussein’s statue and they pulled it down? And I’ll tell you one thing, we’re going to be here for years, and no matter what our politicians say. We pull out now, after having thrown out the Taliban, the creeps’ll come back from their hideaways in Pakistan in six months and we’ll have terrorist training camps all over. The present government we put in wouldn’t last for a week if we weren’t here. Look at the assassinations of officials since we’ve been here. And anyway, I don’t trust one sect more than the other when it comes to any idea of reform. The way they still treat women — no better than baggage. That’s getting better now but it’s going to take a long time. What gets me is the Afghans say they want an end to war but the first thing they want to get their hands on is a Kalashnikov. It’s like Northern Ireland and all those other places, I guess — fighting’s become a habit. Sometimes I don’t think they know what the heck they’re fighting for — it’s just what they know how to do.
Anyway, sweetie, these are some of the reasons I’ll be glad to get out of the place, which brings me to the big news: I’m coming home! High time, eh? Got some shrapnel in the right arm. It’s slowed me down a bit so they’re shipping me to Fort— for some R and R. You know, some physio — hot tub, that sort of stuff. Before you know it I’ll be good as new — back in the unit.
He ached, needed to tell her how badly he felt about losing his men, but he knew she’d worry about him worrying — and what could she do? “You can tell me anything, David,” she’d told him. “I don’t want you carrying the load all by yourself, honey. No matter what it is. Okay?”
“Okay,” he’d agreed, but how could he explain it to any civilian? And she was alone. All he could do was write the six KIAs’ next-of-kin, and knowing that they’d all write back to him, thanking him for his thoughtfulness in writing them, made him ill. And they’d trust him all the more because he was a hero, a Medal of Honor winner, which made him inwardly cringe.
He signed off with “Lots of love to everyone,” kisses and hugs, aware that he hadn’t told her how long his R&R at Fort Lewis in Washington State, and therefore their reunion, would be.
At USO Headquarters at Tora Bora, where he could use a secure land line, the general called the Beijing embassy, asking for the military attaché. He was transferred to Riser instead, and introduced himself, adding, “Sorry about your girl, son.”
“Thank you, General. You wanted to speak to the MA. He’s out at the moment. Friendship Store.”
Freeman knew the place — overstaffed by semicomatose Chinese salesgirls who were about as enthusiastic about selling merchandise to “Big Noses” for urgently needed U.S. dollars and euros as they were about joining the PLA’s reserves, which had begun to decline as the younger cell phone — Internet generation of Chinese became less enamored with the PLA’s slogan of “Unite against the running dog lackeys of the right” and more interested in getting the latest burned American CDs.
“General, he’s just come back,” said Riser, handing the phone to Bill Heinz, who respectfully heard the general’s concern about the Muslims in a bar, the same point General Chang had brought up with Riser and thus indirectly with Heinz.
“Good point, General. I see you’re sharp as ever. I still remember your tip-off about the Patriot missile. But it’s not unusual for Muslim terrorists to go to bars.” The MA was calling up his computer file on all suspects thought to be involved in the planning as well as the execution of the 9/11 attack. Among them were three men who were at a skin palace, The Pink Pony, a Daytona Beach strip club featuring “totally nude XXX naked dancers,” the night before the attacks on the WTC and Pentagon.
“Huh,” responded Freeman. “Those fundamentalists sure get around town.”
“Sure do, General. ’Course, those three suspects might not have been drinking, unlike Li Kuan’s boys in Suzhou.”
“Guess not,” said Freeman wryly. “Too busy slobbering over pussy at the Pink Horse.”
“Pony.”
“Whatever, drinking or perving, seems as if they’re using bars and strip joints to fit in. No doubt their religious sensitivities are offended. They’re just whoring and boozing out of a sense of duty.”
“Probably,” laughed Heinz. “Maybe getting a taste of the seventy-two virgins they’ll get when they hit us again.”
“So the info from Suzhou isn’t suspect just because the Muslims were hitting the sauce?”
“Not as far as I’m concerned.”
“Thanks for your time.”
“My pleasure, General.”
When Bill Heinz replaced the phone, Charlie Riser asked him about his reference to the general and the Patriot missile.
“Freeman,” Heinz explained, “cottoned on to a bizarre fact — that in a certain range the Patriot missile could be accidentally launched by a baby’s scream. Freeman warned them. They did tests. He was right.”
“They fix it?” asked Riser.