War of the Encyclopaedists (24 page)

Someone in flip-flops came in, panting, to splash water on his face and pat himself down with a paper towel. Montauk was ready to be done with this and went back to the photo essay. He imagined himself with Mani, flashing between flips of intense sex and scenes in a character drama that provided emotional context. Him visiting Boston after his return, her inviting him over, getting him to carry her around in coy reference to their days at the Encyclopad, feigning helplessness
and asking him to help remove articles of her clothing, being shyly honest about her desire for him. Mani taking all the risks. His body released him. Montauk caught most of it in his hand but accidentally peppered the magazine's spread, along with his boots. He closed his eyes and exhaled slow and quiet. The usual twinge of sadness was, this time, deep and warm. His eyes watered. He stood for a moment in a darkness of his own making until the air-conditioning made him notice the cold liquid on his hands. He wiped it off with one-ply, the sperm probably dead already from the cold.

After washing his hands, he stepped out into the bay, almost colliding with Urritia, who was on his way in.

“Four more years, sir!”

“Oh . . . yeah?” Montauk was unsure whether Urritia was making an announcement or stating a preference. He barked out a
hooah
as he sauntered into the bathroom and slammed a stall door shut. Montauk walked down the hall and poked his head into the platoon room.
Team America
was still on. The Alec Baldwin puppet was making a speech to the F.A.G. war council.

“Did they call Ohio?”

Olaf looked up from a laptop. “For Bush.”

Montauk went back to his makeshift cubicle and tossed the letter on his desk next to the pistol that he rarely carried. He took it out of its holster and broke it down. Dust on the outside, no surprise there, but the inside was clean. The reality was that she was probably sport-fucking some pretentious hipster in Boston right now. He wouldn't have had a problem with it if the pretentious hipster were Corderoy. Corderoy would have said something, though. Or maybe not. It probably wasn't Corderoy. Some dust in the barrel. He didn't bother. The only reason to schlep this thing around was the off chance that he'd get to empty it into someone's mouth, and who better than the guy who'd put the cigarette burns on Aladdin. He'd save one round for himself, maybe, as this was an army of laws, not men.

27

Montauk moved slowly through the buffet line, watching his Thanksgiving plate assemble itself as the Pakistani servers heaped the standard sides in designated quadrants. The DFAC was quieter than usual, the clattering of silverware barely audible above soft conversations, as if the cafeteria's patrons had temporarily developed manners. Suffused with the moist, fat smell of turkey, the atmosphere seemed to approximate “reverence” or “grace.” But the DFAC was still the converted ballroom of the Al Rasheed Hotel—high ceilings and fluorescent lights. And it was decorated by the Pakistani staff, which meant papier-mâché pilgrims, eagles, and, for some reason, a tabletop display featuring Shrek and Donkey.

Montauk wandered past tables of Blackwater PSDs, contractors, CPA bureaucrats, embassy types, media, and Navy SEALs. He found some of his guys at a table in the corner. “Stuffing's good,” Urritia said as Montauk sat down. He nodded and tucked into his meal. The stuffing was good.

He ate quickly, like he did every day, like most soldiers do, then sat back in his chair observing the room. It was an impressive feat of logistics, getting big turkeys out here, thousands of pounds of mashed potatoes, teaching the Pakistani kitchen staff how to put together a Thanksgiving meal. But to the servers, it was just any old Thursday. And outside these walls, the Iraqis probably had no idea it was
Thanksgiving. Ant was staring off into space. Sodium Joh was drawing infinity signs in the leftover gravy on his plate.

Montauk ate half of an unremarkable slice of pumpkin pie, then got up to leave.

“Some of us are going to Freedom Rest, sir,” Urritia said.

“Oh, the place they got set up next to Warhorse?”

“Hooah. They got the pool open, and everybody gets two beers. It's only open today.”

“Isn't that where they put all the PTSD cases?” Montauk asked.

“Roger, sir. They probably just hid them all in the closet or something for today. Two beers—you gotta sign up at the TOC, though, and roll down in a convoy.”

“Two beers. That's two ounces of beer per month of deployment,” said Joh.

“I'll pass,” Montauk said. “Don't get pregnant.”

• • •

He poked his head into the CPIC. About a third of his platoon was in there, along with other troops and civilian government types. The Colts-Lions game was about to start, but kickoff was still twenty minutes out, and the Armed Forces Network was showing the presidential turkey pardoning. Bush stepped up to the podium and said, “I'm pleased to welcome biscuits . . .” For a second, it seemed like he'd developed aphasia. “. . . the national Thanksgiving turkey,” he continued. “Biscuits, welcome.” Bush made a string of strange jokes about Biscuits' tough road to earning his White House pardon, saying that “Barnyard Animals for Truth” got involved, and that “a scurrilous film came out, Fahrenheit three-seventy-five degrees at ten minutes per pound.” He carried on with some boilerplate praise of the armed forces, “many of whom are spending Thanksgiving far from home.” Montauk always felt awkward when public figures glorified the military, like he was at a school assembly and the principal was saying, “You are our future.”

Two aides brought the turkey forward, ass to the camera, trying to keep it from freaking out, and Bush said, “Not only will I grant the pardon to Biscuits, I will grant one to Gravy as well.”

As Bush stroked the turkey's neck for a photo op, Montauk could
not shake the feeling that he was experiencing some sort of CIA psychological torture designed to induce mental regression.

The Armed Forces Network logo swirled into frame and faded into a split screen showing a soldier on the left and a picturesque American family on the right. “We miss you, son,” Mom said, turkey glistening on the table behind her. “We're grateful for your service, Daniel,” Dad said. Younger Sister stood there timidly, looking not into the camera but presumably at some director behind it. “Mom, Dad, Jules. I love you guys,” the soldier said.

The logo swirled, and another family reunion proceeded on script.

Montauk walked out and headed down the stairs to the phone bank. It was hard to be moved by the trite things strangers said to their families from afar. And yet he found himself wanting to hear and say those same trite things to his own family.

As in his college dorm, phone access at the FOB was provided in small closetlike rooms. Montauk had always wanted to bang a girl in one of them, but he'd never checked that off his list. He pulled out his calling card and dialed through to his parents' house in D.C.

The phone rang and rang and rang. And rang. And rang. Answering machines were already obsolete, yet his parents still hadn't acquired that technology.

“Oren Montauk.”

“Hi, Dad,” Montauk said.

“Son.” He paused as if confused or searching for the right words. Montauk knew better. His father's silence was a statement. He spoke more with measured pauses than with words. “It's good to hear from you.”

“Where's Mom?” Montauk asked. His mother usually answered and acted as mediator for anything his father wanted relayed, which wasn't much.

“Your mother is at the grocery store,” his father said.

“Oh,” Montauk said. “She start the turkey yet?”

“The McMinns are coming over,” he said. “They're bringing a turkey breast.” A pause. “Your mother's buying a pie.”

“That's nice,” Montauk said. “Well, tell her I called, okay?”

Montauk's father said nothing for so long that Montauk nearly said, “Hello?”

“Don't waste your dime,” he said. “You called. Now tell me something.”

Montauk leaned his head against the wall and flicked the safety of his rifle on and off. “What do you want to know?” he asked.

“How are your sergeants?”

“They're good,” Montauk said. “Especially Olaufsson, my platoon sergeant. He's freakishly competent. Sergeant Nguyen's a little strong on the discipline, but he's smart, and he keeps PFC Lo from screwing up too much.”

“Sergeant Nguyen?” Montauk's father offered his son a silence full of the timeless amazement that the Vietnamese were serving in the US Army. “Have you had any trouble with the blacks? Them getting along with the rest of the platoon, I mean.”

“Dad . . . no. Look, I'm gonna get going,” Montauk said.

“Have you been wearing your sidearm?” he asked.

“Sometimes,” Montauk said.

“Sometimes? What if your rifle jams?”

“I've never even fired a shot.”

“Just wear your sidearm.”

“All right.”

“I'm proud of you, son.”

“Thanks, Dad. Tell Mom I love her. Okay?”

Silence. Montauk pictured his father's solemn nod.

28

A pair of Brads and a Humvee rolled across the bridge toward the Red Zone. Montauk gave a little wave. They waved back. Out in the middle of the bridge, some guys from 4th Squad were manning the BOB. One of them leaned out the top of the driver's hatch, flicking a pocketknife open and closed. The other sat in the turret, looking out across the water like a bored lifeguard. Down on Priority Search, Fields was standing in front of an Opel's open trunk, facing PFC Lo, who was holding a camera for a “thumbs-up next to the goat in the trunk” shot. The driver laughed as he closed his trunk full of goats and drove off into the Green Zone. There were no other cars in line at Priority, so Fields and Lo sauntered back to the bunker at the foot of the stairs.

As Montauk approached, he saw Olaf inside, leaning against the wall and dragging on a Gauloise. Ant was also inside, manning the machine gun, sort of. You couldn't spend eight hours a day white-knuckling the pistol grip of a 240, aiming down a street where nothing ever happened. A certain relaxation was normal, effective, even. Fields and Lo had just cracked open a few Mr. Browns. Montauk squeezed in and joined the party.

“LT, I heard you're next up for leave,” Fields said.

“Yeah, I could use a beer,” Montauk said.

“Where you going, sir, just home?”

“To D.C. to see my parents, then a stopover in Boston.”

“Why Boston?”

“I've got a friend there.”

“Ooh, I could use a ‘friend' right about now,” said Lo.

“Ant has a ‘friend' in D.C., sir. Maybe you could look her up,” Fields said.

“Oh yeah? Good friend?”

Ant gave a sad, lazy smile and looked down Priority Lane.

“Come on, Ant, let's hear the story,” Fields said.

“Nah, I already told you.”

“LT and Sergeant Olaf haven't heard it! C'mon, you gotta tell it.”

Ant shook his head.

“Sir, order Ant to tell you his story about D.C.”

Montauk looked to Olaf.

“Private Ant,” said Olaf. “Tell us the story about D.C.”

Ant sighed, and a little mirth crept into his smile. “All right. Gimme a cigarette.”

Olaf handed him a Gauloise.

“
Shukran
,” Ant said, peeling off a glove and getting the cherry going. Montauk tamped down his Kodiak can.

“All right, so. A few years ago, I'm out visiting my buddy in D.C. for spring break. He's doing pre-med at Georgetown.”

Fields made the move-it-along motion with his hands.

“So we're driving around with his roommates and this car pulls up next to us at a light. It's full of cute girls, and one of them is leaning out of the car and starts talking to us. So we all start flirting, and when the light turns, we keep alongside of the car. There's one super hot brunette in the backseat that keeps talking to me. So, awesome. This goes on for like three or four stoplights, until we're at the last light before we basically have to get on the freeway, and the brunette writes down her number on a wadded piece of paper and throws it in my window before we drive away.

“So later in the evening, we're back at my friend's apartment, we start drinking and playing cards and stuff, and they start getting really fucked up and annoying to be around, and at some point I'm just like ‘I'm gonna call this chick,' and they're like ‘Cool, we're drunk, go for it.' So I call and she's like ‘Yeah, my friends have gone home and I'm at home, but you should pick me up and take me out' or whatever.”

“Yeeeah,” said PFC Lo.

• • •

The Humvee carrying Staff Sergeant Jackson, Urritia, Sodium Joh, and Thomas pulled up to the Green Zone bazaar. It was a tourist trap, yes, but a pretty interesting one—only those with access to the Green Zone could patronize it, and who knew how long it would be around? Not for long, was the general sentiment, since the occupation would be over soon.

The bazaar was spread out in a vacant lot in the center of the Green Zone and was reminiscent of a small flea market in the American South. It was a city block long, and it boasted cheapo knives and nylon “tactical” holsters, T-shirts with slogans, a bunch of knockoff pro soccer jerseys. Sodium Joh was marveling at an electric lighter with Saddam's face on it. Pressing down on the thumb button ignited a gas flame that changed from white to green to red then back, along with a Casiotone sound system playing some kind of martial melody. Two plastic stars set into Saddam's eye sockets blinked on and off.

“Jesus,” said Joh. He turned to the guy behind the table, a twentysomething in a fake Manchester United jersey. “How much for this?”

The guy held up five meaty fingers. “Fifteen.”

“Fifteen?” Joh looked down the stalls for the other guys. Thomas and Jackson were across the aisle, picking through T-shirts that asked “Who's Your Baghdaddy?” Urritia had wandered down to Prince ­Faisal's Souvenir Shop, which offered photograph portraits of customers in Lawrence of Arabia getup, complete with scimitar and headdress.

“I'll give you ten,” Joh said. The guy scrunched his lips as if deliberating. Joh turned his gaze to the sparse crowd of shoppers shuffling languidly down the dusty aisles like sun-drunk tourists at a seaside resort. One had stopped and was fiddling with something under his robe. Joh didn't notice.

“Okay,” the vendor said. “I do for ten.”

• • •

“Anyway,” Ant continued, “my buddy lets me borrow his car, and I drive out to this swanky suburb in Virginia or Maryland—­columns on the porch and shit—and I roll up the driveway and ring the doorbell,
and her dad opens the door. And I'm like ‘Uhh, nice to meet you, sir, I'm here to pick up your daughter' or whatever.”

“Right.”

“And then behind him, I see the girl coming down the stairs on one of those power-lift things in a wheelchair.”

“Yeeeeah!” Fields said.

“You're right, Fields,” Montauk said. “We do need to hear this story.”

“So I played it totally cool,” Ant continued. “Didn't even blink.”

“Nice.”

“And he's like ‘Okay, well, you have to be back by midnight, absolute latest,' and I'm like ‘Yes, sir,' totally polite and unfazed. Turns out this girl's a paraplegic, but she's a fucking paraplegic ten.”

“Yeeah, baby,” Lo said.

“So she's like ‘Take me out to my favorite bar, they never card me there,' and I'm like ‘Okay, cool.' And we go to this bar, and I carry her in and sit her on one of the barstools. And we're flirting, she's getting drunk, whatever. We stay for a while. Then she wants to go to this other bar down the street, so, okay, I stick her in the chair and roll her over. So we're carrying on, it's going well, she's super hot, but we're not making out in the bar or anything, I mean, I'm not going to drive her to my buddy's gross house and try to fuck her on his bed.”

“Why, because she doesn't have any legs?” Lo asked.

“She has legs, idiot,” Fields said. “She's paralyzed, she doesn't just not have legs.”

“Yeah, look, she has legs. I just . . . Whatever, my plan was to be a good guy and take her out and then bring her back to her dad. I mean, she was super hot; if I was actually living in D.C. and had a place to take her that wasn't my drunk friends' crash pad—”

Fields made the move-it-along hand motion again.

“Whatever. I'm supposed to have her back by midnight, and I've got to drag her out of the bar because she wants to stay longer. So we're in the car, and I'm trying to get back to her neighborhood. I'm already late. But then we're passing this big park and she tells me to pull over 'cause she really has to piss. And I'm like ‘Shit, I told your dad you'd be back by now,' but she insists. So I get her out of the car and she tells me to get her swing out. She's got this kind of hammock thing under her
wheelchair that has Velcro loops that attach to a tree or poles. So I'm like ‘Uhh?' But okay, I roll her into a group of trees and get the Velcro attached between two of them and lift her into the swing. Then I start to walk away to give her a little privacy, and she shouts, ‘Just kidding!' I'm like ‘What?' and she's like ‘Just kidding, I don't actually have to pee. This is where you get to do whatever you want to me.' ”

• • •

Urritia stood in front of Prince Faisal's Souvenir Shop, weighing the pros and cons of getting a Lawrence of Arabia picture taken. The cons were that it was extremely lame, that the rest of the squad would give him hell for it, and that it would cost money. The pro was that he'd have something to give Mom for her birthday, and there was nothing Mrs. Urritia loved more than photos of Urritia, preferably cheesy posed photos. Urritia in a baseball uniform, holding a bat; Urritia with a prom date in front of a stylized backdrop of moon and stars. He turned around to look for Jackson and found himself looking at a sweating, wide-eyed Arab who stood about ten feet away. The Arab was looking straight at him and saying something, his head cocked to the side, his dark hair slicked to his forehead, his lips moving and then ceasing to move. Urritia thought:
Oh.

The Arab expanded, faster than the eye could see or the ear could hear, pushing out before him a wave of pressurized air filled with carpentry nails and washers, some of which flew straight into Urritia's body as he was lifted off the ground and pushed onto the table with the loosely folded robes, keffiyeh, and ersatz scimitar of Lawrence of Arabia.

• • •

The dull crack of the distant explosion reached the Priority Search bunker.

Two-Six, BOB.

“BOB, Two-Six,” Montauk said into the mike.

Two-Six, BOB. White smoke plume, looks to be somewhere in the Green Zone.

They stepped outside to look at the tall off-white puff rising over the GZ, about a klick and a half away.

“BOB, Two-Six, roger, keep me posted.”

They filed back into the bunker.

“A paraplegic ten on a sex swing in a park? Oh, man, you're such an idiot,” moaned Fields.

“Yeah,” Ant said. “I know, but I just couldn't do it. It just felt so wrong, dude. I just said, ‘Look, no, I've got to get you home,' and she gave up and went with me. We rolled back into her driveway and made out for a minute, but I was like ‘Okay, it's like one-thirty, I've got to get you back inside,' so I roll her to the front door and I'm about to ask her for the key or something, then the door just opens and her dad is standing there in a sweatsuit.”

• • •

Jackson reached Urritia first. A chunk of Urritia's cheek had peeled off, and there were small patches of blood seeping through his DCUs. Urritia was making a
hmmmmm
sound that was gradually rising in volume and pitch. Jackson thrust the radio at Joh, who had just arrived, and told him to get a medevac there with a neck brace. Joh called the company, and Thomas ran off to find a medic. Jackson felt around for entrance and exit wounds. Urritia started blubbering something unintelligible, and Jackson told him that he would be okay, then started cutting off his shirt. There was a small hole in his chest that didn't look very deep and a larger, more concerning one below his navel. No exit, so something was in there, maybe deep. Urritia starting crying and squirming. Jackson yelled at him to stop moving his head, then realized that Urritia was saying, “My dick! Where's my dick?” Jackson put down the knife and started undoing Urritia's belt and trouser buttons.

• • •

“Well?”

“So she rolls past him down the hall,” Ant said. “And he's like ‘So, what happened to midnight?' And I'm like, ‘Sir, I'm really sorry, it just got late, we were having a good time, and I miscalculated how long it would take me to get her back here. But it's my fault, I should have had her, you know, back a while ago.' ”

• • •

Sergeant Jackson told Urritia to shut up, then slid a hand down his boxer briefs to feel for damage. Urritia's junk was sweaty and hot to the touch, and Jackson felt wetness. He craned his head around to try to get a better angle and gently pushed the elastic band of the underwear back as far as he safely could. Urritia was one of those guys who trimmed his pubic hair. His penis was covered in blood. “Uhh,” Jackson whispered to himself. Urritia said, “Oh, no,” and Jackson told him to shut up again, a bit softer this time.

He gently manipulated Urritia's penis to check for some kind of pinhole entrance wound. There was nothing obvious. He went over it inch by inch as fast as possible, but Urritia's scrotum was covered in hot sweat and blood, and the skin was difficult to hold on to. And then Jackson realized: all the blood down there was from his own hands, from touching Urritia's belly wound. He'd been feeling up Urritia's dick for nothing.

“It's fine. Hey, look at me. Your junk's fine.”

Urritia looked back at him and said, “Really?” And Jackson said, “Really,” and Urritia started to smile and giggle.

“Yeah, well, don't laugh at it, we got to get you on a backboard and back to the Cash. Stay awake and stop moving your head.” Jackson cut through the thighs of Urritia's trousers—no punctures near any of the arteries. Just the shallow one in the chest and the deeper one in the lower gut. Urritia's breathing had stabilized.

Jackson looked back for the medevac, but it was still a minute away. All that remained of the bomber were his legs and pelvis, which had fallen into a kneeling pose over a dark pool in the dirt.

• • •

“And what he does is, he gives me this long look and puts his hand on my shoulder and says, ‘Don't worry about it, son. Most guys just leave her in the swing.' ”