CHAPTER 17
SOME ARE BROWN, MOST ARE BLACK. SOME ARE SLEEK, MOST MATTE. SOME textured, most flat. A few have bright splashes of color for the younger crowd, on others are earth tones for the mature customer. The greens vary from light to verdant, the browns from oak to mahogany, the camouflage from desert to woodland to traditional. Long barrels, bolt action, breach loaders. Large caliber for game. Target pistols for sport. Air rifles for children. Being a sporting goods store, they stocked oddities like a fluorescent orange shotgun, a handgun with plastic ribs lending it the futuristic look of a laser pistol, and a selection of gift sets with matching knives, holsters, and ammo bags, all nested in festively colored molded plastic inside cellophane-wrapped boxes adorned with glossy photos of bucks and buxom women. Achilles settled on a black.260, a handsome machine with clean lines, a smooth wooden butt, and none of the superfluous attachments that make cheaper rifles and pistols more attractive to kids. It was pricey but reliable, important because he hadn’t time to zero the sights. The rifle was one that aficionados consider well made, manufactured by an Eastern European company with the unofficial slogan Preager Velond Pistols, Intl. — When the shooter wants to send the very best.
Not all agreed. Among his friends, five loved Preagers; four thought them acceptable. They also disagreed on the best SAW. Three said RPK because it was a lighter gun. The rest liked the Browning because it had more firepower. It was a moot debate, because they were assigned the RPK. They argued anyway — what else was there to do when there was nothing around to shoot at? They also disagreed about the best heavyweight boxer of all time, the most realistic version of Madden NFL, and what to do if killed. Most said, “Burn my body.” Jackson, Wexler, and Ramirez were holding out for resurrection. This conversation started the week before Jackson died, prompted by another squad humping a fallen friend across three clicks of mountainous terrain.
Wages said, “I don’t care if I look like a bag of smashed assholes. Mail me back to Nola. I don’t care what’s left.”
Merri said, “Mamma don’t need to see me all like chicken parts and shit.”
Jackson said, “If nothing’s left but smoking nuts, ship those salty apples home.”
They did. Jackson’s corpse traveled with them for a day, getting a whirlwind tour of southeast Goddamnistan, as Dixon dubbed it the day of the IED. Jackson’s body was with them when Wexler lost his mind, when Merriweather got shot, and when Wages took out that sniper. A rough forty-eight, and halfway through it, Merriweather suggested the tax, the only thing the squad agreed on. Merri, who prayed silently each a.m., tapped Jackson’s black body bag and said, “I know they’re treating you well up there, my man.” He later followed with, “What are we doing? We need to tax these fuckers.”
Their first consensus. Tax those motherfuckers. Fuck interrogation and dropping mofos off for AI. If I get smoked, level the place, go Vietnam on them, get medieval, like the Crusades and shit. Get jiggy-Jihadi-Hutu-Tutsi right back at them.
Dixon said, “Yeah baby. I like the cut of your chin.”
Wexler, who usually kicked dust on the topic, chimed in. “Torch it all.”
“That won’t get you into heaven,” said Dixon.
“It will make us feel better,” said Troy.
“Right on! Eat that anger. We don’t get down, we get even,” said Merriweather.
Can you go to both heavens? Can you bring the virgins to our heaven? Jokes circled the room, including mention that Hitler killed ten to one. At that Wages cut them off: “Everyone is going home, in one piece.” It was decided, though — manifest extreme prejudice.
As Achilles planned to. Would he have told Troy? Yes, and Troy would have joined him. Troy had heart, prey drive. Achilles always knew he could trust his brother without question. He remembered their big fight over the truck, tumbling down the driveway. Their mother running outside screaming, their father on her heels with his rifle, laughing once he saw that it was only his sons who had provoked his wife’s howling anger. And why were they fighting? Their father chuckled at the explanation. Their mother cursed and pushed — yes, pushed — them into two separate rooms and asked them again. Two hours later, their answers remained the same. Troy (on a Britpop kick) was like, “Because Achilles is a right faggot.” Achilles (on an NWA kick) was like, “Because Troy is a spoiled punkass bitch.” As far as Achilles knew, the truth died with Troy, as did the day they skipped school to go into DC for the Chuck Brown performance, and how the garage window really broke. What about all the habits he didn’t have to explain (mayonnaise on eggs, that he shit every night at four a.m. local time, how Jet magazine gave him a hard-on)? What else did only Troy know about him? What had he forgotten about himself that died with his brother? Which of those things, if any, could he tell Ines? He would make a list and carry it with him.
He would begin with the minefield. That night, Achilles was driving, Wexler was riding shotgun, and Troy and Merriweather were in the back. Jackson thudded against the roof on every rise in the rough wadi, the dry riverbeds that served as roads. “We’ve got to tighten those ropes,” said Merri. Wexler howled, threw himself out of the vehicle, and started running, dragging his pack behind him. It was a quarter moon, so there was little light, and using their flashlights could attract unwanted attention. Achilles got out of the vehicle and called after Wexler in a hushed voice, hearing in response only steps in the sand and brush. Achilles stopped Merriweather from giving chase. It would only make Wexler run farther, and Wexler was the fastest of the four of them. Just that morning they had been intact, all of them, laughing and joking. They had passed some kids playing in a pile of rubble and Wexler asked about average lifespans, yelling and repeating himself to be heard over the engine: “How long do Afghans live?” Merri laughed. “Until we find them.”
The faint glow of the moon illuminated the mountain range at the edge of the horizon. The occasional bat flew by, and they could make out every star in the sky. It was one of those moments when Achilles was drunk on the idea that if a war hadn’t been going on, this might be one of the most beautiful landscapes he had ever seen. Instead, he wanted every inch of it razed, every tree stripped bare, every building leveled, every rock crushed. A flash of light silhouetted Wexler as a tree of roiling red and orange flames sprouted. He grabbed his neck and fell down. It was dark again. A sheet of squawking bats passed overhead. It had happened so quickly no one had time to blink or shut one eye, and they were all momentarily blinded. Merriweather cursed. Troy shook his head mournfully. Enter now the other Achilles, stage left. A man named Achilles Holden Conroy spun on his heels, climbed into the driver’s seat, hit the hot start button, and patiently awaited his mates.
As he watched himself, the other Achilles pressed the hot start button again, and the starter barked. He waved the others in. The other Achilles slapped the side of the door. Merriweather and Troy took small steps toward the vehicle. The other Achilles put it in gear. “That’s it. Let’s go now.”
Troy was almost at the vehicle. Merriweather was reaching for the door handle. Then they heard Wexler’s curling cry. The other Achilles’s murmurings that there was nothing to be done and Merriweather’s nods of assent be damned, Troy charged out there — red illume between his teeth, as soldierly and surefooted as if on asphalt, across the rise and through the shallow bowl — hefted Wexler over his shoulder, and on his return, with his left hand — the jump-shot hand, ATM hand, jab hand, shooting hand, pitching hand, cue-stick hand, wanking hand, the scarred hand — patting the back of Wexler’s legs; mouth full of fire, he can easily be imagined in silhouette on a recruitment poster or in a movie trailer; more emotional than that scene in Platoon when Willem Dafoe, peppered with bullets, is left behind to die at the hands of the VC, sparking Achilles to wonder how he was going to explain this, fingering his pistol, wondering if he could live up to the old saying, In the final assault, save the last bullet for yourself, that question remaining on his lips until Troy lay Wexler in the sand at Merriweather’s feet like a peace offering, at which point the other Achilles, who’d remained in the driver’s seat until now, came to watch as Wexler was bandaged. The two Achilles stood side by side, shoulder to shoulder, and the other Achilles said, “Goddamn him to Christ.” On the drive back, whenever he looked back at Wexler, he imagined him strapped to the roof.