‘But they’ve said something?’
Pakosta shook his head, spat on the ground, said in a low voice, ‘I knew it. I asked you, and you said there was nothing going on.’
Santo didn’t appear to understand what he was reading. ‘What’s this about contaminants? There’s a whole list. Dioxins. Lead. Cadmium.’
Rem said he’d seen it.
‘You’ve seen it?’ Santo sounded alarmed. ‘Why don’t we know about this?’
‘It’s what she does. Pay no attention. She’s caught up in a debate that’s happening back home.’
‘About the burn pits?’ Santo pointed toward the pits.
And now Sutler weighed in. ‘CIPA have ordered the pits to close. HOSCO haven’t complied. If they comply then they’re admitting to illegal burning.’
‘Bullshit, they’re just trying to get rid of as much as they can.’ Pakosta also pointed to the pits. ‘That’s what this is about.’ He turned to Rem. ‘You knew this?’
‘I saw the email yesterday. I’m waiting to hear from HOSCO.’
‘They’ve closed Bravo?’
Sutler stepped in front of the barbecue, his hands raised. ‘It’s why I’m here.’
All heads turned to him.
Sutler asked if anyone liked whisky. He invited them into the Quonset.
‘I don’t know if you’ve heard the rumours — about a city. If so, they’re true. There are four sites under consideration, but I can tell you this one is looking like the favourite.’ Sutler couldn’t suppress a smile. ‘It will be Camp Liberty. It’s not official. But it’s almost certain.’
The men looked to each other and the maps on the table.
‘A city. A new city is going to be built here.’
‘Here?’ Samuels looked from the map to the view outside the Quonset.
‘Right here.’ Sutler was serious. ‘Supplies start arriving tomorrow from Southern-CIPA.’
‘I knew it,’ Watts preened. ‘What did I tell you? There was a rumour.’
Sutler smiled beneficently. ‘They haven’t made it official — yet.’ He folded his arms, an authority now. In nine months they’d flatten the Beach, and the plain would be divided into lots designed to hold a new city with its own water supply, schools, an intel centre, an airport, accommodation (buildings not huts), there would be a PX, a shopping complex, a cinema. In nine months the largest military base would begin construction in the southern Iraqi desert. The Massive, as the project was known, would have its own advanced medical unit, airfield, water, and waste-processing. You name it.
‘The size of the fuel dump is where the Massive gets its name. It isn’t the size of the military base but its capacity to store oil. We’re bringing a city here, right where you’re standing. The first job will be to build a proper road, something more substantial than the existing route.’ He’d calculated the support a place like this would need. Equipment would be flown to Amrah City and dropped on site. The base would be snapped together out of pre-manufactured units shipped from Singapore, Kuwait, Bahrain. The Massive would be assembled in situ, but until the word came from Washington, they had to wait.
‘So what about the burn pits? It’s true then, they’re closing them?’
Sutler shrugged, and looked to Rem. ‘We’re all waiting on news.’ He knew only what he’d told them.
* * *
The entrance to the apartment was also the entrance to Mr. Liu’s Tai-Chi School. The classes began in the early evening, and in the winter the hallway became a harbour for men sheltering from the cold. In the summer it became a latrine. Cathy had a habit of holding her breath as she unlocked the lobby door.
With the key in the lock, she was surprised by someone coming up from behind and signalling for her attention. With some relief she recognized the boy from the park — dressed in the same white, blue-rimmed tracksuit. The same Bulls cap.
‘Someone was here.’
‘I’m sorry?’
‘They left a note.’ The boy offered Cathy a folded sheet of paper. A receipt for ninety-five boxes of mouthwash. At first she thought the boy had handed her a piece of scrap paper. If it wasn’t for her name and address printed on the receipt. Mouthwash?
She invited the boy to the taqueria, sat with him, had him describe the men in detail, but could not guess who they were. They’d come in a car, he couldn’t remember the make, looked casual, like any other man on the street, dressed in jeans and a T-shirt, sunglasses, and pushed the paper in between the doors because they were locked.
‘Roscoe, right? Roscoe. I need to ask a favour.’
The boy took off his hat, she couldn’t decide how old he was. His head shorn, a stern look about him, but still baby-like.
Cathy explained that she needed to go to Cleveland. She might drive and stop somewhere overnight. Just one night. ‘The thing is,’ she hesitated to ask, ‘Nut.’
‘Sure, I’ll come.’
‘I wasn’t asking…’ Cathy paused and laughed and started to explain how this wasn’t what she was asking, because — what about his parents, what about, I mean, wasn’t there school somewhere in the mix here, apart from the fact that, however likeable the idea, because it seemed so inappropriate, apart from the fact that they didn’t know each other. I could be anyone. But still. Easier to agree. If there was somebody else in the car the dog would be manageable.
Roscoe waited for Cathy to explain herself. He didn’t live at home, he said. He was eighteen and he lived with an aunt, and pretty much did what he wanted.
He explained himself so plainly that Cathy lost her argument, retreated to a standard let’s see. And the boy sat back, knowing exactly what this meant.
They sat in silence after this, the boy with folded arms, his cap on the table. Cathy looked across the road to the apartment. She could have seen this boy a thousand times and not paid attention to him once.
She said goodbye to Roscoe at the taqueria, and decided to check her email at the library. She found fourteen emails from boston_adams with twenty-seven attachments. As she opened the documents she found information from a Senate Sub-Committee on burn pits, affidavits from doctors, but more interestingly documents from HOSCO including manifests of waste shipments to Camp Bravo, SB Alpha, and Camp Liberty. Included with the emails was one brief message: Cathy, I believe you will find this interesting.
* * *
Rem couldn’t sleep. The idea stuck on replay. A city? Nothing about it made sense. HOSCO were scrambling to finish the few jobs they could manage, and it was no secret that much of what was promised would not be achieved. It was common knowledge — even Cathy knew this from the news and papers back home. So a city? Here? From scratch? In a desert?
Just supposing it was true, where would you start? You’d have to build a sewer system, electric, water, roads, everything from nothing. A city built on sand? Wouldn’t that be the first problem? And what was that story about building a house on sand? An idea so deep in the culture, so ingrained, that going against it invited collapse and godly punishment.
He stretched the idea in his head, exercised it, and found it lumpen, illogical. If it was a joke — and surely it was — he couldn’t see the point.
Kiprowski slept with his back to the room, silent enough and still. Rem had opened the blinds a crack to keep an eye on Sutler at the Quonset, and noted that the man finished his work about one thirty, a little later. The lights dimmed and Rem listened as Sutler hauled down the Quonset door. After that all sound was lost to the generator, before it too shuddered and stopped.
Still no word from Geezler. So if they had closed the burn pits, he had to ask himself, how would he know? And Cathy. He needed to speak with Cathy.