‘Don’t make the mistake,’ she said, leaning forward, ‘of thinking this is about you and me.’ Cathy laid out the manifests sent by boston_adams, one by one. SB Alpha. Camp Bravo. ‘You might want to look at the dates. The most recent is from two weeks ago.’
Sue Williams ran her tongue over her teeth, then asked as an aside where Cathy had obtained the documents.
Cathy slid the papers forward. ‘I think a more interesting question would be: how come there are manifests in the first place, when, according to my husband, there are trucks arriving at Camp Liberty without any kind of documentation. You’ll see the waste they were taking to Camp Bravo is now being taken to Camp Liberty. Medical. Plastics. Paint. Batteries containing lead, cadmium, zinc.’
‘I can’t comment on these documents, and I can’t comment on Camp Bravo.’ Sue Williams, to her credit, held Cathy’s gaze. ‘I can show you the papers that record that there are no functioning burn pits in southern Iraq. The facilities that were in use are now closed.’
Cathy shook her head. ‘They are in use.’
‘I can assure you that all waste processing in southern Iraq is currently managed by Iraqi firms and businesses. Our facilities are being converted for other use or are in the process of being shut down. If burnings are happening, it’s without our authority or consent.’
‘What about the health concerns?’
‘We’re awaiting rulings on this,’ Sue continued through Cathy’s objection, ‘we have excellent medical facilities in Austin; when these individuals return they will be offered a full screening. We will honour our responsibilities.’
* * *
Cathy stopped at a bar. Sat outside with a Diet Pepsi too flat to drink. She’d learned nothing, and failed to profit from the journey. She looked out at the farmland and knew this wasn’t quite the case.
Nut sat in the driver’s seat. Smudges greased the passenger window, and when she came close his expression, a little dumb, a little guilty, reminded her of Rem.
She waited for Roscoe to return from the restroom. In some regards a bad idea to bring him, but he sat in the back with the dog, and kept to himself.
He was eighteen, she couldn’t believe it, just as he’d said. And he worked, on occasion, with the Park District. His aunt was sick and couldn’t be bothered with him, and Cathy had driven by the house intending to have a word with her. Aunt Bea had stood on the porch and looked at the scrubby front yard like she detested it. A woman with emphysema who smoked. Cathy drove on. One look at the house and Aunt Bea and she knew enough about the boy’s life not to ask any questions.
Roscoe. Another detail she would not share with Rem.
* * *
Watts woke Rem with a communication from Southern-CIPA.
‘This is from Tom Markland. Some instructions about the security team.’ He held the paper out. ‘He wants to hear that the pits are shut down. He wants confirmation. He thinks we’re working for Sutler now.’
Rem dressed quickly and took the paper outside to read it. Pakosta, Clark, Chimeno, Santo, it read, four of the men recently qualified with C3-5 firearm training, were to be picked up at 14:00 and brought to Amrah City where they would accompany the Deputy Administrator to a conference in Amman to work as his security detail.
News had filtered through and Pakosta, Clark, Chimeno, and Santo ambled conspicuously between the Quonset and the cabins.
Chimeno punched the air as Santo read the list out loud.
‘Pakosta said there were two cars stopped on Route 567. We have company. A couple of cars with Kuwaiti plates.’
Santo suggested that they both take a look, and Rem signalled that this wasn’t a problem, his hands smoothly cutting through the air.
‘Tell them Watts is sick or something. He clearly isn’t interested in going.’
Rem stood on the spot long after the vehicles had pulled out, their lights furred and faded along the curve of the road.
* * *
Once the security team were dispatched, Watts drove to the camp entrance and found two cars pulled off the road, shabby and dust-caked — a small group sat in them looking hot and quarrelsome like any family that needed a break during a long drive.
‘They had a tarp laid out,’ he reported back. ‘Four men, three women, a girl of four or five. Kuwaiti plates.’
Wanting to know how much of a threat these visitors might be, Rem decided to check them out.
‘Call Amrah,’ Watts suggested, ‘have one of those Chinooks blow them back to the Gulf.’
Rem asked Sutler if he’d brought protective gear.
‘I’ve a jacket with panels, a helmet, it’s pretty standard.’
‘I’d like to borrow it.’
‘I was hoping I could come with you.’
* * *
They dressed in their cabins then met outside Watts’. Rem helped Kiprowski tie the straps that held together the chest and back flaps. Kiprowski shook a little, an edge of nervousness or too much coffee, and Rem regretted not properly considering this jaunt: he didn’t want Kiprowski along. Kiprowski, and Rem, dressed in an odd assemblage of worn kit, looked end-of-credit, the characters left standing, and Rem badly wanted to tell Kiprowski that his family had a specific word for ill-advised ventures such as this: ‘jammer’. Sutler wore new kit with shiny black shoulder pads, a smart jacket with quilted pleats, more suited for fencing than blast and bullet protection.
‘I’m missing the crotch.’ Kiprowski held out the front of his jacket and looked enviously at Sutler. ‘There were flaps for the neck but I cut them off.’
Rem looked Kiprowski up and down and swore under his breath. ‘We look like kids on Halloween.’
‘We can’t all go.’ Rem designed an excuse for Kiprowski. ‘One of us needs to stay in case there’s contact from Amrah. Where’s Watts?’
* * *
Rem found Watts in his cabin, splayed on the floor, collapsed and wheezing, his jacket beside him opened out. Watts didn’t respond when Rem turned him over, and saw, on his shirt, a fine spread of aerated blood. He shouted for Sutler and began to haul Watts to the side of the room to lean him against the wall.
Watts opened his eyes and looked at Rem as if he were a stranger, and would not answer his questions.
Sutler came hesitantly into the cabin, and knew better than Rem how to manage. He lay Watts on his side. Raised one arm out and hoisted the other under him to keep him on his side.
‘You’ve checked his pulse? How’s his breathing?’
Sutler held Watts’ head, looked into his eyes and asked him questions. ‘Can you hear us? Can you raise your arm? Try lifting your arm. Clench. Make a fist.’
Watts looked at Sutler, entirely unable to respond.
‘You need to call for help.’
Rem didn’t have a clue how to work the equipment. This was Watts’ territory.
‘Get Kiprowski,’ then shouting, ‘Go!’
* * *
They carried Watts to the Quonset and sat him upright, and slowly, in increments, he revived. The men hung close, silent and anxious. Sutler guessed he’d had a stroke, although, in truth, Watts was missing most of the typical symptoms — but nothing else would explain his disconnection. Watts moved slowly, turned his head, turtle-like, and indicated that he was thirsty. As soon as he had water he began to appear more alert.
Kiprowski sat beside Watts and said that they were shipping him out. ‘You get to fly,’ he said, ‘any minute,’ and then, in a less certain voice, ‘you’ll be all right.’
* * *
Kiprowski returned to Watts’ cabin to call CIPA and check on progress.
Watts, considerably improved, acknowledged only Rem.
When Sutler came forward with water, Watts looked sourly aside. ‘Watch him.’ He pointed to Santo’s cabin. ‘He’s no friend to you.’