News From the Red Desert (17 page)

At the same moment, Deirdre got twenty emails simultaneously, all with links to the
Guardian,
which had just posted the helicopter video. Soon it was also on
Le Monde
and
El País.
It had been taken through the target acquisition camera of the 30-mm cannon on the nose of an Apache helicopter based out of Bagram. While it hovered a kilometre away from a clot of men standing at the intersection of two alleys in a village purported to be on the outskirts of Jalalabad, its camera
recorded the view through the gunsight. The audio recorded the discussion between the pilot and the weapons systems officer. She put in her earbuds and turned up the sound on her laptop.

Blurry footage and on the audio, the thump of a helicopter. It was hard to tell for sure where they were, but it was a city: a jumbled sprawl of one-storey houses, flat roofs and chaotic streets. The helicopter was descending, and through the gunsight camera the weapons officer was studying a particular intersection.

The conversation between the pilot and the weapons officer was casual and focused. She had listened to hours of such discussion in her time in Iraq and she knew how normal and efficient a mode of communication it was for the soldiers— and how callow it would sound to a domestic audience.

Those words in their casual tone would be played and replayed on a million earnest weeping people's blogs, she knew. She felt badly for the men. They would know those voices were theirs. Maybe their girlfriends and parents would, too.

And that footage of the people stopping to help and being shot in turn would be inflammatory, too. As would the reporters being shot—the foreign-national reporters. She didn't know what to say about that.

She closed her eyes for a long moment. She removed the earbuds and set them down on the table. She opened her eyes. She began to feel a rising sense of indignation about the fact that this was being viewed by people who had no context in which to judge. Who would leak something like this? What could the motive have possibly been? Surely they would have known what effect this would have on the mission. Abu Ghraib all over again. Every internet café from Baghdad to Jalalabad would be playing this over and over again. Deirdre replayed the clip, starting with the exchange between the helicopter pilot and the gunner referring to the parents of the children who had just been shot:

PILOT
: Well, it's their fault, for bringing their kids to a battle.

GUNNER
: That's right.

She could just hear that line being quoted over and over again. Someone would probably release it as a ringtone.

She had seen worse up close, a hundred times. War is shitty. People know that. Or they ought to when they send their soldiers off to fight. Even if they never get to know the details, they can depend on that. If you haven't seen war, the details will just confuse you.

Then she thought again about the guys on that recording. Jesus. Everyone who recognized their voices will look at them a little different for the rest of their lives. This stuff is not supposed to be public. This was a horrific violation. She hoped the leaker got caught fast. She made a fist.

Rashid studied the list that Rami Issay had passed to him. He was to pick five films for the next month, which was to be a trial period for what the boss proposed to call the Kandahar Kinema Klub. “Sometimes, the young people will deliberately misspell words. It is the fashion today.”

Oh, for God's sake.
“I know, boss. But that mostly has to do with music. This is not music and we are not in Los Angeles and we are not cool. And we cannot call it anything that can be abbreviated to three Ks.”

“Why ever not?”

“Trust me.” Because it is only me that keeps you from being summarily fired for ideas like that one.

“But still, can we not try to have fun with this?”

“Boss, trying is the least cool thing of all.”

“If having fun must conflict with being cool, I think you know what I would pick.”

“Whatever you say, boss.”

The films would come from Germany, on any of the resupply or repatriation flights out of Air Force Base Ramstein. An anonymous but helpful and clearly informed clerk had provided plot summaries.

True Lies:
Schwarzenegger and Jamie Lee Curtis struggle with their marriage, his secret career as a special operative and a woman's need for affirmation as they are attacked by terrorists.
NOT RECOMMENDED FOR MUSLIM AUDIENCES
.

The Matrix:
Keanu Reeves, Laurence Fishburne. The machines have taken over. Nothing is real. Sunglasses and black leather trench coats have never been more cool. You can do anything, create anything, with code. But even if you're the One, no one touches anyone. Except, possibly, as code. But if you are equating that with the real thing, soldier, then you have been deployed far too long. Recommended.

Gone in Sixty Seconds:
Nicolas Cage and Angelina Jolie, when she still did movies like this. There are some very cool cars, the theft of which is the core of the plot. Spectacular chase sequences fill most of the screen time. Cage becomes extremely agitated. Highly recommended.

Mr. and Mrs. Smith:
Like
True Lies,
but less Schwarzeneggerish. Brad Pitt and Angelina Jolie are hired assassins, each unknown to the other. Like all spouses, whether they acknowledge it or not. Recommended.

Wrote the presumably married clerk. There were pages of this.

Deirdre almost bumped into General Jackson outside the dining facility. He was leaving, she was entering. He said it first because someone had to; there was no ducking her gaze and anyway. “Hello.”

“Jeremy.” As level as voiced-over Japanese movie dialogue.

“The press liaison officer told me you were here.”

“He said the same thing to me about you.” A riposte to what had not been intended as a jab.

Jeremy Jackson's eyes crinkled. Long pause. Then he said, less distantly, “What do you think about it all?”

“That's a pretty broad question. And anyway, what I think doesn't matter. What do you think?”

He looked around. “It isn't Iraq.”

“It is not.”

“But it is complicated.”

“The best stories usually are.”

“Which story are we talking about?”

“I think you said, ‘it all.' Which story is that?”

“Western hegemony?”

“Will you do an interview with me on the subject of western hegemony?”

“No.”

“Then that's not the story I want to talk to you about.”

“I'm almost reluctant to ask what is.”

“Whatever you
will
talk to me about. You hold the cards here.”

“I really don't.”

“You still have my cell number?”

“It works here?”

“It has worked wherever I've been for the last two years. The wonders of modern technology: SIM cards and roaming plans. Ask Fred about it.”

“I'll tell him hello for you.”

“Give him my best.”

“I will.”

“Don't shut me out, okay? I have to do my job here, like everyone else.”

“Why would I avoid you?”

“Why, indeed.”

“Nice seeing you again, Deirdre.”

And they paused, maintaining eye contact, while they both decided not to shake hands, and then they walked on. Neither of them could take a full breath for at least a minute. They both hated that.

Anakopoulus locked his office door and then sat down and poured himself a glass of whiskey. His guys knew better than to disturb him once that door was locked. He opened his email. His military inbox was one
long list of
where is.
Where is that refrigeration unit you were holding for me? Has that container of oil filters arrived yet? He forwarded these to his clerks to chase down. Which is where they should have gone in the first place. It's always the same story, people have two conversations with you and they think they have an in with supply.
Write the big man directly, he'll take care of it.