News From the Red Desert (18 page)

In his personal account were notes from his brother, and from guys who had rotated through sometime in the last seven years and couldn't stop thinking or talking about it since. Like unwrapping bales of uniforms here is an entirely different experience than it would ever be stateside. The guys who had been or subsequently went to Iraq didn't obsess over this place as much. Though with three rocket attacks this week, it was getting so that the difference wasn't as big as it had been.

One of the guys had sent him a link to the helicopter video that had just been posted. He clicked on it. As the images flickered on his screen he felt a hand around his throat. By the end of the video, his shirt was visibly damp and, once again, he was nauseous.

Deirdre had seventy more emails waiting for her when she opened her eyes the next morning to the sounds of Harriers taking off. She scrolled through her phone, scanning subject lines. Most of them were about the leak investigation. What did she know? Were there MPs on the ground, asking about it? How offended were the soldiers? Had there been any local outrage expressed? How much violence had it provoked?

She was eating her eggs in the DFAC when David Mitchell sat down without asking.

“Hey!” he said, “I've been meaning to grab a coffee with you.”

“Hi, David,” she said.

“So, the story of the year keeps getting more heated, huh? Did you see the
LA Times
editorial this morning?”

“Yep.”

“Everyone is
furious.
”

“I see the point. Inflaming anti-American sentiment is going to cost lives here and in Iraq. Real lives, real people.”

“Isn't every Afghan who is disposed to killing Americans pretty much doing it already? Would the idea that a helicopter crew might machine-gun innocents and laugh as they watched through a gunsight surprise any already aggrieved Pashtuns?”

“It's fuel added to the fire.”

“Do you think the
Times
considered not running the story?”

“The
Guardian
had the story, too. Whoever organized the leak knew what they were doing. Everyone's hand was forced.”

“What do you know about who did the organizing?”

“I know what you know: InformationIsFree.​com. They run a dropbox out of Liechtenstein. I heard about them when they released a bunch of Greek government accounting statements showing corruption. Otherwise, there isn't much out there about them. They say they don't want to become the story. All that will change, though.”

“Their name says what you need to know about their motives, I guess,” he said.

“The Afghans who support the coalition operations here only do so because they believe the Taliban to be even worse than having unbelievers driving in their streets. That ‘even worse' part is the only thing that gives the mission and this country a chance. And the truth is that the Taliban
are
much worse. But they have to be seen as that for there to be any chance.”

“Is that our job? To make the mission successful?”

She felt her temper rise. She had twenty times as much time in the field as he did. “Nobody in NATO stones women in soccer stadiums. The Taliban are shitty. That is just true. It's part of the story.”

“How much popular support do you think the Taliban have?”

“I was in Iraq until five minutes ago, David. I don't know any better than you do. Don't try to trap me. Of course we're not brown and not Muslim and we kill Afghans. So, no, we are not universally loved, and the Taliban do have some support. It doesn't make them not horrible. Which, again, has to be part of the story.”

“We?”

She sighed and looked away. “Americans.”

“ 'Cause I'm not killing any Afghans. How about you?”

“Point taken. Aren't you clever.”

“How do you see this all playing out back home?”

“I think the response has been really mature. Normally, all leaks are embraced because everyone wants to know a secret. But the press is being pretty critical about this. I think InformationsIsFree deserves the shit-kicking they're getting.”

“Because of the fuel-fire problem?”

“Yeah. Soldiers are going to die as result of that leak.”

“Yeah.”

“And when they do, the public will need to understand that part of the story, too.”

“Fox News will make sure of that.”

“Soldiers are real people. And they really can get killed by reporters.”

“Those kids with 30-mm holes in them were real people too.”

“Of course,” she said, and stood up with her tray. “Have a good day, David.” She dropped her tray at the bay and walked to the exit.
Asshole.

Anakopoulus was sitting at his desk reviewing air manifests when one of his men poked his head inside. He looked up. “Hey boss, just got a crate in from AFB Ramstein marked for your attention personally.”

“What is it?”

“Looks like movie equipment. Some films. A popcorn popper.”

“Right. I got a call from the base commander's ADC about this. I think he's doing some kind of entertainment night or something. I'm supposed to get this to the Green Beans. Do you wanna call them for me?”

“Sure.”

“Thanks.”

“Hey boss?”

“Yeah?”

“Everything okay?”

“Get back to work.”

“Gotcha.”

Rashid's first thought on seeing the film crates in the big sergeant's warehouse was
of course.
The posters had already gone up in the café and around the base, advertising
Red Dawn,
the first screening of the KAF film society, but according to the packing slips that was not what had been shipped to them. Of course.

Fight Club.
It could have been worse. Could have been some dismal Hugh Grant romantic comedy. Any of the Sandra Bullock vehicles that the boss had wanted to order would all have been disasters. This, they could deal with. Rashid tried to recall what he could of the movie. He remembered fetishized violence, though he could not recall the use of any weapons, which would have been better. The homoerotic Brad Pitt–Ed Norton tension-but-not-really-cuz-they're-the-same-guy would simply have to be overlooked, as it had been by most of the world already. The title would bring the audience in. If they didn't like what they saw, they could just look away.

The sergeant said one of his guys would bring the projector over to the café on a loader. Rashid carried the film reels back on his shoulder. They were surprisingly heavy. Perhaps they should have just used something off BitTorrent, after all. They would have known what they were getting, and there would have been no need to worry about shipping mistakes. As he lumbered down Screaming Eagle Way, a platoon of Poles marched by, a short bullet-headed NCO striding alongside with fierce attention. Land Rovers from the RAF regiment bumped their way over potholes behind them. Rashid heard a circular saw screeching as it bit into a two-by-four. He smelled the wood. He smelled the DFAC's bread ovens. He adjusted the film canisters on his shoulders and he realized with surprise that he was at that moment almost happy. The smell of cut spruce and bread. There was even the prospect of talking about
a complicated movie—whose reels he was carrying to a strange café so that it might be shown to soldiers. He permitted himself a small smile.

Rami Issay was not dismayed by the shipping mistake. “I only acquiesced to that
Red Dawn
in deference to the recommendation of the officer commanding, Ramstein Cinema. This is much better.”

“Maybe, boss. I worry a little that it will seem…degenerate to them.”

“Do you mean the Pitt-Norton interaction? They are simply two men shirtlessly fighting with each other. Is boxing degenerate? Are the mixed martial arts?”

“There's all that anti-materialism. It will seem socialist.”

“My young friend, have some sympathy for what the soldiers endure. They have few comforts and poor pay and danger everywhere. They think their compatriots at home are cosseted and narcotized. That part will resonate with them.”