Read The Kills: Sutler, the Massive, the Kill, and the Hit Online
Authors: Richard House
Rem gave a soft ‘oh’. ‘OK. You didn’t hear anything about those vehicles that were just delivered, because they don’t look much like junk?’
Hassan closed his eyes and shook his head. ‘No. There was some talk, the men who brought them also did not understand why they were bringing them here.’
‘And this was organized by who? Tom Markland?’
‘By Howell, I believe. This is what they said.’
Rem offered a ride to the cabins. Santo gave Rem a quick look and slipped into the back seat. Watts, Clark, Chimeno, and Pakosta, they agreed, could move the munitions boxes back to the Quonset – under strict instructions that they should not be opened and stored securely away from the other provisions.
Rem found the man disarming. It wasn’t his handsomeness, but his softness: big eyes, long lashes, his slender shoulders and small frame which conspired to one delicate effect.
He led Amer Hassan to Kiprowski’s cabin, apologized, and said he hoped it wouldn’t be inconvenient, sharing a small cabin with another man.
‘That’s Kiprowski’s cot. Don’t worry, we have plenty in the Quonset.’ Kiprowski, he assured him, was a good person, quiet and unassuming.
As Rem walked back to his own cabin he shook off this coyness. There were things he was missing, he told himself. Things that weren’t good to be so long without. Santo wolf-whistled and asked if Rem was interested in seeing what they’d been sent.
Rem found Kiprowski in the Quonset and explained the situation.
‘This will only be temporary, but we don’t have enough cabins and sharing is necessary. I can’t see any of the others being . . .’ He wasn’t sure what he wanted to say,
accommodating
? ‘You speak Arabic?’
‘No, sir.’ Kiprowski shook his head and looked like he had something to say.
‘I thought you spoke Arabic?’
He worked in food services. Remember?
‘No matter. Obviously he speaks English. This whole thing is some kind of mix-up. I can’t see him staying with us for long.’
Stopped at the doorway Rem began to make the introductions and suggested that Kiprowski help find a cot and whatever else Amer Hassan might need.
Kiprowski and Hassan greeted each other affectionately with smiles, a handshake that fell into a brisk hug.
‘We were at Southern-CIPA at the same time.’
The silence that fell after this explanation made it clear to Rem that he should leave.
That evening Kiprowski brought the translator to the area they’d set aside for eating. Hassan helped Kiprowski start up the portable stoves and watched as they brought water to the boil. He shook hands with the other men, but once Kiprowski had passed out the rations, they sat separate from the group – and about the two men grew a private air.
Pakosta, Clark, and Santo settled to play cards. Samuels and Chimeno returned to their cabins, and sat at their doors, one reading, one writing, while Rem and Watts struggled to find a clear connection to Southern-CIPA.
Markland confirmed the arrangements for the weekend. Chimeno, Clark, Pakosta, Santo, Samuels, and Watts would undertake a firearm safety training course at Camp Arifjan. Howell, who had business in Kuwait, would be there to meet them. With these details settled, Markland began to speak about Route 567, which was now re-designated as a Secondary Supply Route. Neither Rem not Watts understood Markland’s instructions.
‘If anything happens on 80 then we need to have Route 567 secured for military and supply convoys.’
Rem asked if anyone at Southern-CIPA had actually seen the road. ‘In some parts it’s just a graded track. You know that?’
Markland didn’t care. ‘It’s not perfect, but it’s what we have. We’ve had trouble on Highway 80 before, and there’s no option but to use 567 as an alternative.’
A forty-mile stretch either side of the camp was to be checked and regularly patrolled. All activity along 567 was to be monitored, a zone cleared along either side.
Rem caught Geezler up on the details and found him more interested in Howell’s vehicles than the munitions and the arrival of the translator. They had two new generators and more fuel, which meant, for the evenings, they’d have light. A freezer wouldn’t go amiss. Watts was stringing up a line of lights for the front of the Quonset now, lights also for the food area, such as it was.
Geezler was stuck on the vehicles. He wanted to know how many were now at the Beach. ‘Send me some pictures. I need to see this.’
Rem explained about the new duties, and how they would be expected to monitor part of Route 567. ‘We have a translator. Sent by Southern-CIPA.’
This threw Geezler into confusion. ‘You’re there for the burn pits,’ he argued, ‘not patrols. You work for us, not CIPA. Why has Howell given you a translator? I don’t see why he’s even involved?’
Rem said he didn’t know, doubted there was a good reason, that everything was largely random. Over the coming weekend most of the men would accompany the Deputy Administrator to Kuwait to take a basic weapons training course.
Geezler asked Rem to repeat this. Could he clarify? The most senior government representative in southern Iraq was taking time out to accompany contractors on a weapons training course? ‘Your contracts come from HOSCO. He can’t give you work unless he raises a contract which goes for public tender.’
Rem couldn’t help but laugh. Geezler seriously didn’t understand the territory, the deal with Markland on security was separate. He shouldn’t have mentioned it. As for Howell, what did it matter? Nothing here was logical. CIPA had college graduates running entire government divisions. Why worry over five contractors and a Deputy Administrator who probably only want a weekend off?
The next morning Rem took Santo on a drive north along Route 567, and found parts in worse condition than he’d reported. In an hour’s drive they encountered no other vehicle. Santo pointed to the roadside, he’d seen something, a dog, or maybe a coyote.
‘They have cats out here. In the middle of the desert. I’ve seen their tracks about the cabins.’
Brooding over his discussion with Geezler, Rem wasn’t listening. ‘You know, when Southern-CIPA speak about contingencies that means something’s going on.’
Santo agreed. They send arms, they send a translator, equipment, vehicles, all without explanation. They shut down the section base in Amrah. Something was afoot.
‘I’m talking about the road, this whole security detail.’
‘Right. I mean, what do we know about him? We don’t know anything. They drop him in the desert with a box of guns.’
‘The translator? You know what he’s doing here. Howell sent him from Southern-CIPA.’
‘That’s what he told you. He could be anyone.’
‘Kiprowski knows him.’
‘You just said you don’t trust them.’
‘Who are we talking about here? Kiprowski, the translator, or Howell? I was talking about Southern-CIPA, and maybe Howell.’ Rem pointed to the vast space about them. ‘Everything about this place is backwards. I think there’s something we don’t know. Those vehicles, this security team. I think there’s information we don’t have yet. I don’t think it’s mysterious. I just think we’re not in the loop.’
‘Think about it. He could be anyone, someone they want isolated, kept away from trouble. Someone we aren’t supposed to know about.’
‘He speaks Arabic, Farsi, and English. He’s a translator.’
‘
Think about it.
You didn’t know he was coming. And why do we need a translator?’
‘Santo, who would he be exactly?’
Santo backed down. ‘I don’t know. He could be anyone. Who do you think they’d drop in the middle of the desert with two boxes of weapons and enough ammunition?’
‘A translator?’
‘I’m being serious.’
‘So, who is he? Tell me who you think he is? The translator is here because Howell needs him. The security detail is necessary because we’re remote and Howell wants a team when he does his travels. And for this he needs a translator.’
‘Then why hasn’t he asked the translator to come tomorrow?’
‘For the training? It’s in English? Surely?’
‘And those vehicles? What about the vehicles?’
‘Maybe that’s part of it? I don’t know. Santo, this isn’t anything different. We just don’t have the details.’
‘And the guns?’
‘They stay in the crates.’
Santo leaned away from Rem, folded his arms, a slight edge of disbelief in his gesture as if he didn’t agree, but he was prepared, for the time being, to leave it alone. ‘One last thing. Is Kiprowski officially retarded?’
Rem refused to answer.
‘I don’t want him coming tomorrow. There’s something not right about him.’
‘He isn’t going anyway. You know this? They didn’t ask for him. I thought it was Samuels you didn’t like.’
‘Samuels is run-of-the-mill chicken-shit scared. Kiprowski isn’t normal.’
‘He’s nineteen.’
‘They’re all nineteen, give or take. That’s not the problem.’
‘I hope this has nothing to do with the translator.’
Rem pulled the Humvee to the side of the road and they agreed to return.
Rem rose early to see the men off. Lined up in front of the Quonset, Humvee at the ready, he found Santo, Clark, Chimeno, Samuels, and a groggy Pakosta.
Rem asked Santo if he was sure about the group. ‘You have Samuels?’
Santo shrugged. ‘You want him to stay?’
‘I don’t care who goes. Take him if that’s what he wants.’
‘I’m poisoned.’ Pakosta held his stomach. ‘I can’t eat those MREs any more. You seen this?’ Pakosta rolled up his sleeves to show a rash, large, palm-sized blotches, map-like and raw.
‘Looks like a reaction?’
‘No shit it looks like a reaction.’
‘See if there’s a medic when you’re in Kuwait.’
At the mention of a medic, Pakosta rolled down his sleeves and said it was nothing. ‘Better today than yesterday. Itches like a bitch.’
Surprised to see Clark, Rem asked if he was sure he wanted to go. ‘Never been to Kuwait,’ was the only justification he offered for his change of heart.
Neither Kiprowski nor Watts came out of their cabins. ‘I don’t want any problems to come out of this,’ he told Santo. ‘Tell them Watts is sick or something. He isn’t interested in going.’
Rem watched them clamber into the single Humvee, then slapped the side and sent them off.
He stood on the spot long after the vehicle had pulled out, its lights furred and faded along the curve of the road. The cabins buzzed with the hum from air-conditioners, the air vibrated, then, with a click, the generator turned off. The only people in the camp were Rem, Kiprowski, Amer Hassan, and Watts.
Watts joined Rem at Burn Pit 5 just as the trucks were unloading.
‘How many is it today?’
‘Twenty-five. Fifteen shit-suckers. Best stay up-wind.’
‘Do you know what the problem is between Santo and Kiprowski?’
Watts said he had an idea.
‘I wouldn’t worry about it. It’s a small thing. Kiprowski’s a nice kid. He sticks to a routine. Makes his bed. You’ve seen how orderly he is? He’s not from the same planet as the others. He’s struggling to fit in.’ Watts held his hand to his throat, his voice husky from the smoke. ‘I’m too old for this,’ he said. ‘You do it for so long, and you begin to ask yourself that question.’
‘Why?’
‘Exactly. You start asking
why
. I tell you. I don’t have an answer any more. But this is it. As soon as that child is born I’m done. I married late. I’ve done everything backwards. I know that. But I’m telling you. Once I’m done here, I’m done. No more contracts. No more of this.’
‘You know what you’ll do?’
Watts looked out over the pits. ‘That’s the problem. You do one thing for twenty years and you’re no good at anything else. Who’s going to hire you? No one wants to take that risk.’
Rem agreed. ‘Nothing’s easy.’
‘And if it is there’s something wrong with it, right?’
‘Right.’
The smoke cleared, and the fire blistered across the pit.
‘You see what went in there today?’
‘Looked like powder? Something white.’
Watts nodded, eyes on the fire. ‘Building materials. Four loads, whatever it was, shipped from the US, not even opened. And yesterday, food cartons, those plates they use at the commissary. You know how many of those we burn?’
‘Must be in the thousands.’
Watts craned his head back, followed the trail of smoke. ‘Can’t be doing any of us any good. I was checking the news yesterday, looking for information on the closure of ACSB. You know they’ve closed down Bravo? Those pits aren’t operating any more, manned or unmanned. Which means we’ll be busier here.’
Back at the cabins, Rem found Kiprowski and Amer Hassan returning from the showers. The men walked side by side, a towel over Amer Hassan’s shoulders, and Kiprowski animatedly describing Chicago. His hands formed the ideas, drew rapid shapes in the air. He’d seen the lake freeze only once, he said, great rucks of ice packed against the shoreline, the water steaming. You can’t imagine how cold it gets in the winter, he said, you can’t even imagine it.
Rem returned to his cabin. Lying back on his cot, he congratulated himself on taking up Geezler’s offer.
✩
For the first night Cathy allowed the dog to sleep in the bedroom. He picked the rug on Rem’s side of the bed, then part way through the night came round to Cathy’s side and settled close. For the first time since Rem’s departure Cathy slept well, aware of the dog, his breathing, his musky smell. When she woke she thought again about the boy. She hadn’t properly thanked him. She turned to her side and looked at the dog. As always, of a morning, Nut sat right beside the bed and looked up, innocent enough, with a little pink hard-on. His
chilli
as Rem called it.
See, he likes you.
‘You’re disgusting. You know that? That’s just vile.’ She sat upright. ‘I can’t even look at you.’
It was no surprise to see the boy outside. Dressed in the same clothes, the cap pulled back so he could look up, he stood by the sign for the currency exchange, hands in pockets.