Sand Queen Part 10

[ KATE ].

THEY WONaT LET me out of the Warhorse field hospital till the morning after the mortar attack, and only then once theyave doped me up with tranquilizers, washed the worst of the blood off of me and given me some dead soldieras helmet, since I lost mine. I walk out of there feeling like air jets are shooting from the soles of my boots. Peopleas voices are echoing strangely, too, like Iam in an indoor pool and my ears are filled with water.

They order me to take the return convoy to Bucca right away, so the next thing I know Iam back in my go-cart with salami-faced Nielsen.

aI see you and me are still here,a he says when I clamber in. aThat was a b.a.s.t.a.r.d of a night, huh?a I donat react.

aYour buddy turned out to be okay, though, I hope?a aHow long till we move?a is all I say.

aTen minutes.a Breaking down my rifle, I wipe it clean of moondust, give the magazine spring a light lube and snap it back together, making sure the action is good and smooth. Then I slide on another condom to keep out the sand. This baby can shoot seven hundred rounds a minute if I want. I stick it out the window and turn my back to Nielsen. Even that lamebrain knows not to say another word.

Off we go again, although with fewer trucks this time. I wonder what the h.e.l.l we delivered. They never tell us. Could be weapons. Could be toilet paper. Could be nothing at all. Some of those trucks really are emptya"Iave seen them. We suckers are dying out here, getting our legs and faces sheared off, just to deliver trucks full of air.

The convoy rumbles out of the base, back the way it came, predictable as a f.u.c.king pendulum. What a good idea. Letas send those camel jockeys a time-table, telling them exactly where and when to kill us. We might as well hang signs around our necks: Shoot Me Here.

I clean off my sun goggles, fit my rifle on my shoulder and look through its sights. Iam still floating on Ativan and Valium, or whatever the h.e.l.l those medics pumped into me, but Iam wound tight as a hair trigger anyway. There are way too many people on the road for my liking, and thereas way too much garbage too. Anything can hold an IED. Cardboard box. Mound of rags. Plastic bag. Anything.

Soon weare out of Camp Mortarhorse (as Iave found out too late Warhorse is called) and back on the same highway we took to get to this dump. The same s.h.i.t is all around us, too: the desert, the tire shreds, the bits of artillery sticking like weird sculptures out of the sand. The stranded families, confused civilians, the camels and carts and crumpled old cars getting in our way. I practice aiming at all of them. Just in case.

aHey, Brady, pull your f.u.c.kina weapon inside. No need to go crazy here,a Nielsen barks. I ignore him.

Then I spot this skinny little boy, about seven or so, walking beside the road. Heas leading a donkey harnessed to a rickety two-wheel cart. I stare at him, hard. You can hide a cannon in a cart. You can hide the biggest d.a.m.n IED you ever saw in a cart. You can hide enough RPGs and ammo in a cart to blow up a whole frickina convoy and every sorry sucker inside of it.

I train my sights on him. One swerve, you f.u.c.king miniature towelhead, and Iam taking you out. I was always a good shot on the firing range in basic traininga"a lot of us females were. We used to brag that we could shoot the hairy left ball off of our drill sergeant at thirty meters away, easy.

The boy looks over at our trucks roaring past him and pulls at the donkeyas harness, like heas trying to position it somehow. I donat like the look of that at all. I flip the safety off my rifle and squint down its barrel.

aWhat the f.u.c.k are you doina now?a Nielsen snaps.

aJust my job, Sarant.a aDonat go shootina nothing unless I tell you. You know that, right?a The donkey tosses its head and tries to move further off the road, but the boy yanks it back toward us for some reason. Then the donkey jerks its head again, and I donat know why, but it makes me real nervous.

I aim at its left temple. And I watch.

The donkeyas even more jittery now, edging closer and closer to us. I could swear the boyas pushing it our way. On purpose.

So I shoot.

Bullas-eye.

aJesus!a Nielsen screeches. aGimme that weapon!a The donkey falls to its knees, hesitates for a moment like itas praying, then collapses onto its side, pulling the cart over with it. Oranges and lemons tumble out, spinning all over the road. Orange, yellow, orange, yellow.

Next I train my sights on the boy. Heas clutching his head, his mouth wide open. The donkey thrashes on the ground a second, legs jerking wildly. Then it shudders and falls still. Blood oozes from its ears and mouth, and from the hole in its temple where I shot it.

aAre you nuts?a Nielsen yells again. aGive me that f.u.c.king rifle!a I lean out so I have the boyas ear right in my crosshairs. Heas lying on top of the donkey now, crying and stroking it. The oranges and lemons are still spinning over the road.

Orange.

Yellow.

Orange.

Yellow.

The boyas clinging to the donkey hard as he can, his mouth open and wailing, his face streaming with tears. His arms are around the donkeyas neck and heas hugging and hugging it. Just like I hugged Yvette.

I pull my rifle inside, put it down on my lap, and stare.

The rest of the trip back to Camp Bucca goes by awithout incident,a as we say in the Army. Nothing but rumble, rumble, wind, soot and dust. I donat even notice the time. Only sit with my rifle across my lap, eyes straight ahead, seeing nothing.

Nielsen doesnat say a word. Too scared Iall shoot him, probably. But soon as we pull into Camp Bucca, he s.n.a.t.c.hes my weapon right out of my hands and says, aYou better come with me, Brady. You need help.a I follow him in a daze. My ears are ringing real loud all of a sudden and I canat hear much of anything else. I keep shaking my head because it sounds like a bunch of cicadas have nested in my ear ca.n.a.l. Iam still shaking it when we arrive at the aid station.

Peopleas mouths are moving, eyes looking, but Iam too bothered by my private noise to notice what anybodyas doing to me till Iam swallowing a bunch more pills and being made to lie down. Next thing I know itas dark and someoneas leading me somewhere. And Iam back in my tent.

When I walk in, DJ and Rickman and everybody else rushes up to me. aYou okay? We heard it sucked real bad up there.a I push through them and make my way over to Yvette. Sheas the only one I want to talk to right now. Sheall understanda"she goes out on convoys all the time. I get to her rack and look down at it, staring at its emptiness in my fog. Then I turn to Third Eye, whoas standing beside me with her mouth all twisted up. aWhy isnat she back yet?a I say.

Third Eye puts her hand on my arm. aYou better get some sleep.a Then I remember.

I lie face down on Yvetteas rack. I can smell her in the pillowa"only faintly, but sheas there. Reaching out my arms, I wrap them around the edges of her cot. And I hold on, clutching it tight as I can for the rest of the night.

THE HOUSE IS big and white and old, much grander than the soldier imagined it. Itas like a New England inn, with a deep front porch and a green door that matches the window shutters. Carved pillars hold up the porch roof and latticework frames its edges like a row of lace. The door even has stained-gla.s.s panels in it, red and blue and amber. No gory Halloween decorations, though, thank G.o.d.

The windows are dark. All the soldier can see in them is the reflection of the trees behind her. Maybe that means n.o.bodyas home.

She steps up to the porch and looks for a bell. There isnat one. So she knocks on the wood of the door, careful not to touch the colored gla.s.s in case she cracks it.

She waits a long time, hearing nothing. Maybe she didnat knock loudly enough, but she doesnat want to look like a fool and knock again. What she really wants to do is run back to the bus and ride on forever.

She gazes around as she waits, examining the house more closely. On second glance, itas not in such great shape. The paint on the porch, the same rich green as the door and shutters, is lifting off the wood in long, cracking blisters. An abandoned waspas nest is bulging from behind one of the shutters, its pitted comb gray and crumbling. Spiders have spun tightropes between the pillars, and the white clapboard walls are dusted with faint blue mildew.

Whoever once cared about this house is clearly long gone.

The soldier waits, but still no movement within. So she forces herself to knock again, louder this time. A dog barks inside. A biting dog, by the sound of it. She steps back and reaches again for her M-16, groping at her shoulder a second before she remembers.

Then she hears footsteps. The door rattles while somebody fidgets with its lock. Suddenly, the soldier needs to run.

Backing up, she turns to flee. But just as sheas reached the bottom of the porch steps, the door opens and a voice catches her.

aYes?a The soldier turns slowly and stares up at the face looking down at her.

Itas a woman. A young woman with long black hair and bangs. A big-eyed woman. A woman any idiot can see is pretty as h.e.l.l.

f.u.c.k.

[ KATE ].

aKATE! HEY, KATE!a Somebodyas shaking me by the shoulders. aWake up!a aUhn?a aCome on!a I turn over slowly on Yvetteas cot and peel open my eyes. Third Eyeas leaning over me in the grayish gloom. She looks blurred and shimmery, like sheas covered in plastic wrap.

aGet up! Thereas an E4 outside says he has orders to bring you to SFC Henley. You need to move a.s.s!a aWhat?a My headas throbbing and my ears are still stuffed with cicadas.

aJesus, come on! Heas outside the tent right now!a I stare at her, blinking, my brain still clogged from the drugs they stuffed into me last night. I wish theyad given me even more because Iam remembering everything now.

aOh for f.u.c.kas sake!a Third Eye yanks my arm. aYouall be in deep s.h.i.t if you donat get moving!a I shake her off. aLeave me alone.a Sitting up with an effort, I gulp down a bottle of water and grope for my rifle and helmet. Iam still in my uniform, stiff and brown with Yvetteas blood. Pushing myself to my feet, I stagger out, the cicadas screaming.

The E4 is some guy I donat know, although Iave seen him running errands for Henley before. Heas Mexican, short and stocky, with a round flat face like a penny. He nods at me and escorts me through the grayness to the NCO tent. It feels like Iam under arrest, although he doesnat say so. When I ask him to wait while I run into a reeking latrine, he doesnat say anything either. Iave no idea if this means Iam in trouble or if he just doesnat like to talk.

At the NCO tent, he leaves me, still without a word. I go into Henleyas section and stand staring at him, my jaw clenched, waiting till the c.o.c.ksucker bothers to look up.

aSo,a he says finally, without looking at me. aSpecialist Brady. Take a seat.a I do, sitting up stiff. He folds his hands on his desk and fixes his eyes on my hairline, his Daddy Bush mouth clamped tight as an a.s.shole.

aFirst, my condolences about your friend Private Sanchez. Itas always a sad day for the Army when we lose a fine soldier like her. Weall be having the MFH for her and the other casualties tomorrow. You will, of course, be excused from duty to attend.a He pauses, expecting me to say something. But I hate him too much.

aI know itas hard when we lose our comrades, but remember, sheas not the only fine soldier to lose his life yesterday. Three others died as well, and two were severely wounded. We must honor the n.o.ble sacrifices of them all.a aHer life, Sergeant.a aWhat?a aShe lost her life. Not his.a Henley narrows his pinpoint eyes. aWell anyway, I called you in to say that, under the circ.u.mstances, and due to a disturbing report from your convoy sergeant, we think it best to remove you from the shooter mission and return you to guard duty. This means, Brady, that you will not be getting that promotion I mentioned. You understand?a aYes, Sergeant.a Like I give a s.h.i.t.

aYou should also know that, if we see any more of this erratic behavior you insist on, we can put you back on shooter mission at any time. You understand me?a aYes, Sergeant.a aAll right, you can go.a I stand up to leave, but before I do, I glare at Henley in silence a long time. Itas because of you Yvette died, my glare says. Because of me, too, but mostly because of you. You and Kormick together. Youare no better than murderers. And if you think you can shut me up with your dumba.s.s threats, you can think again!

He glances at me uneasily. aI said you can go. And Brady? Change your uniform, for Christas sake.a I do. Thirty minutes later, Iam back in my tower.

Jimmy comes to see me at lunchtime, his first visit in weeks. He finds me hunched in my chair, rifle pointed at the prison compound, head twitching to get the cicadas out. Hands trembling more than ever.

aHey,a he says cautiously, stepping off the ladder. aFeel like a visit?a I donat answer. I donat look at him either. I donat want him to see how grateful I am that heas come.

He walks over and crouches beside me anyway. aI heard what happened to your convoy. Jesus.a I glance behind him. aYou alone?a aYeah, why?a aI keep hearing things.a I shake my head again. aYou hear anything weird?a He listens. aJust the wind.a aItas like these cicadas are stuck in my head. I think the mortars did something to my eardrums.a I bang the side of my head with my wrist. It doesnat help.

Jimmyas quiet a moment. But then he touches my hand. aI heard about Yvette, too,a he says softly. aI know she was a good friend to you. I know you really cared for her. Iam so sorry, Kate.a I nod, swallowing. aYeah.a I pause till I can talk again. aShe was only on that suicide mission acause of me.a aThat canat be true.a aIt is. It was me they wanted to get rid of, Jimmy. Not her. She only got caught up in it because she was helping me report Kormick.a He puts his arms around me then, as easy as if nothingas ever gone wrong between us. I lean against him, so relieveda"to h.e.l.l with the prisoners, already jeering and pumping their hips below us. His salty warmth, familiar, comforting smell. I close my eyes and just breathe.

aWe were going to be roomies when we got home,a I tell him eventually, my voice m.u.f.fled in his shoulder. aWe were going to find a house together and help each other through.a aIam so sorry,a he whispers again, and keeps on holding me. Itas the best thing anyone could do. Much better than pills.

I donat cry, though. I still havenat been able to cry.

The service for Yvette and the other three soldiers who died is held in the chapel, which is only another saggy-a.s.s tent, except super big and light tan. More than a hundred of us show up for it and sit in rows, just like at church, only with fold-up metal chairs instead of wooden pews. I look around. Weave all made some kind of effort to clean ourselves up, even Third Eye. Yvette wouldave liked that.

The altar is nothing but an unpainted plywood platform, with another unpainted plywood panel propped up behind it to make a fake wall. On either side is an American flag stuck into a sand-filled garbage can, like a potted plant. And hanging on the fake wall is a giant black heart, with our companyas insignia stamped in the middle of it.

None of that does much for me. But what does get to me is what theyave put on the platform itself: the dead soldiersa empty boots. Four pairs of them sitting in a row, dusty and battered, as if the soldiers stepped out of them only a moment ago. And between each pair of boots is the dead soldieras rifle, propped up like a body; the dead soldieras dog tags dangling from it like necklaces around a neck; and the dead soldieras helmet and goggles balanced on top like a head and a pair of eyes.

Soldier ghosts. Or, like Jimmy said, robots.

The company commander starts off the service. Heas this huge, thuggish-looking colonel with a polished bald head and a voice like a ba.s.s drum. He steps up to the podium and leads us in the national anthem. Rows and rows of us robots, standing to attention, hands over our robot hearts, growling and squeaking out our national pride. Rows and rows of bare robot heads, the menas fuzzy with crew cuts, the womenas shiny and flat with hair grease. Rows and rows of robots wondering the same thing: Whenas it going to be my boots up there?

Then the commander tells us to sit, and with his voice booming through a crackly microphone, calls the company chaplain to come up and read a few tear-jerky verses from the Bible. Doesnat jerk my tears, though. Only makes me think about Mom and Dad and Father Slattery, and all their nave c.r.a.p about lifting the downtrodden and being protected by Jesus. Jesus clearly didnat give a f.u.c.k about protecting Yvette, even after she made her tenderhearted deal with His dad. We soldiers are nothing more than work and killing machines, and neither Jesus nor G.o.d has anything to do with it. Or I hope they donat.

Then the commander takes over again, and in a flat, expressionless voice, spouts a bunch of empty phrases calling the four dead robots heroes who sacrificed their robot lives for our country and freedom. Telling us how the dead robots personified bravery and valor, and how dying for your country is the biggest honor a robot could ask for.

f.u.c.k valor and honor. Yvette was killed in the middle of writing a frigging e-mail, for Christas sake, because the Army was too d.a.m.n cheap and disorganized to have installed a siren system in the MWR, let alone a mortar-proof bunker for us to shelter in. She was killed because that s.h.i.thead Henley is buddies with Kormick, and Kormick wanted revenge on me for reporting his sick, perverted a.s.s. Valor and honor? s.h.i.t.

The commander finally shuts up, not a moment too soon, and somebody plays a recording of Taps, which always chokes me up, so we all stand and salute again. I glance over at Third Eye to see how sheas taking this c.r.a.pa"after all, she was close to Yvette too. Her face is like rock.

After Taps is over, we sit back down and a few robots clomp up to the podium to speak about their dead robot friends. One talks about how brave and funny nineteenyear-old Private First Cla.s.s Robot Molsen was, and how the poor sucker wanted to be a firefighter when he grew up. Another says Sergeant Robot Miller was a devoted husband and dad to his three kids, and how proud theyall be that their robot daddy died for his country. (Yeah, right.) A third tells us that Specialist Robot Gomez was the toughest and most loyal robot he ever met, and real great on the guitar, even though he was only eighteen.

I canat stand it. I canat stand the waste of human lives.

Then itas DJas turn to talk about Yvette. He asked me if I wanted to do it, but I told him no way. If I got up there, I know what Iad say: You f.u.c.kers murdered her. Every one of you. Donat talk to me about honor.

aPrivate First Cla.s.s Sanchez was everything a soldier should be,a DJ begins, reading from the piece of paper where I watched him scribble his speech last night. aShe went on convoys nearly every night for three months, enduring many attacks without complaint. She was a fine soldier, a good friendaa I stop listening. I know DJ means well, but heas making her sound like all the other robots. Easy to sacrifice, easy to forget.

DJ leaves the podium at last, and one by one, he and the other three robots who spoke lay Purple Hearts in front of each of the four soldier ghosts. Then we all stand to sing aAmazing Gracea and bow our heads to pray. But the whole time that Iam standing therea"staring first at my toes, then at the toes of Yvetteas empty bootsa"all I can think about is why I let this happen to her. Why didnat I stop her from going to Hopkins and making waves when I knew perfectly well that making waves only gets you f.u.c.ked in the Army? Why did I think Momas stupid little plastic crucifix would protect her? Why was I so careless with her life?

The speeches and hymns are finally over. The prayers ended. The metal chairs folded and stacked. Yvetteas nothing but a body in a box now, while an American flag, folded into a perfect triangle, is supposedly on its way home to her family.

But Yvette hasnat got a family. All sheas ever had in her twenty short years of life is loneliness. She was always saying that we robots were her family, the only family sheas ever loved. And weare the ones who killed her.

[ NAEMA ].

aNAEMA?a I FEEL a tug on my sleeve. aNaema, my love, listen!a Blearily, I look up from the child I am tending, the hundredth or so I have seen in this filthy hospital fatally wounded by shrapnel, bombs or fire. Mamaas face is swimming before my exhausted eyes. aI canat talk now,a I tell her. aWhatas the time? Is it morning yet?a She grasps my arm. aNaema, pay attention. Your grandmother, sheaa She breaks down in tears.

aWhere is she? What have you done with her?a I say slowly, casting my eyes over the bedlam of the hospital. I have been working nonstop for some eighteen hours now and am so deeply fatigued I feel as if I am at the bottom of a river.

Mama pulls at me. aCome see for yourself.a aBut Iaa aCome!a aWait, let me finish here.a I look down at the child I am tending, a little boy of about five. He is lying on the floor, which is splattered with blood, vomit and urine, but he lacks even a sheet to protect him. The hospital has no more sheets, let alone gurneys or beds. His face is charred black, as is much of his body, one arm is burnt off and he is crawling with flies and rotting alive with infection. I have nothing to give him but words, but he is in too much pain to hear them, thus I have nothing to give him at all. He stares at me, his eyes huge with agony, too far gone even to cry.

aGo to sleep, little one,a I tell him. aItall stop hurting soon.a As it will.

Turning away, I leave his side and follow Mama, weaving through the other patients laid out on the floor and the wailing relatives gathered around them. If I have ever seen h.e.l.l on earth, I am seeing it now.

Mama leads me back to the corner where I left her and Granny Maryam so many hours ago. Granny resembles a heap of rags more than a human being, lying curled up in her black abaya, her body oddly crumpled and still. I take one look and know she is dead.

aTo Allah we belong and to Allah we return,a I mutter automatically. But I have seen too much this past night to feel anything.

aWe must carry her home right now!a Mama says. aWe have to prepare her for burial. We canat leave her poor body like this, Allah have mercy on her.a aYes, all right,a I say numbly. aHow long since she died?a aI donat know! I fell asleep and when I awoke she was gone, may Allah forgive me. How could Ia"a aMama, shush. You arenat to blame. Let me tell a nurse I have to leave.a The nurse I find is unhappy to let me go, but of course she cannot stop me. aIall come back as soon as I can to keep helping,a I tell her, but she is already too caught up in the next emergency to answer.

So I return to my mother. Together, we lift Grannyas little body, twisted and stiff, and carry her out of the hospital and through the crowd to our car, which we find exactly as we left it. Mama climbs into the back, trying tearfully to keep Grannyas rigid body and head decently wrapped in her dusty shawl. I sit alone in the front, hunched over the steering wheel, drenched in other peopleas blood and nearly blind with exhaustion. And once again, I drive excruciatingly slowly for hours through turmoil and danger.

Why must we go through these things? Why canat we and all those other suffering people in the hospital be left alone to lead peaceful, ordinary lives? Granny Maryam should have died in her own house, saying her last prayers to Allah, not abandoned in a filthy corner like a poisoned dog. She should have been able to lie in her own bed while Mama and I washed her tenderly with lotus leaves and camphor. She should have been able to die with dignity, not amidst blood and ruin. Is it so much to ask that a good-hearted old woman be allowed to die in peacea"or that those poor children I saw tonight be allowed to live?

[ KATE ].

NOTHINGaS THE SAME now that Yvetteas dead. I canat eat without feeling her blood in my mouth. Canat sleep without seeing her body pincushioned with shrapnel. Canat get through the day without thinking that Iam seeing her over and over. She comes walking out of a dust cloud, only to dissolve into air. She turns to grin at me when I enter the tent, only to change into somebody else. Her voice is everywhere, too, telling me to look after myself, telling me to trust her. And when I try to cry, she says, aBe a soldier, baby,a and the tears turn to sand.

Jimmy comes to see me as often as he can. Weare almost a real couple now, although we still havenat done any more than kiss. Heas waiting for me to recover from Yvette and the attacks, if such a thingas possible. Iam waiting to feel clean enough in my conscience to deserve him. But he comes every morning to pick me up for our shift (I canat get it together to run anymore), he comes at lunchtime to my tower and he comes over to my tent at night when he can, too, so we can sneak outside for a cuddle. aI love you, Iave always loved you,a he tells me, and itas so good to hear. The only moments I feel even near to normal are when Iam with him.

If only I could get over the sense that everything I am and everything I say is a lie.

One day in mid-August, a couple weeks after Yvetteas funeral, he climbs up to my tower as usual, only this time he seems uneasy. We sit together quietly a while, watching the prisoners milling around in the dusta"I hate them so much, the bile churns around inside of me all the time now. Then he heaves a sigh.

aKate, I got something to tell you.a aThat sounds bad.a I try to sound jokey, but already my stomachas in a knot. Iam always expecting him to see the light after all and dump me.

aI spoke to Ortiz last night. He asked me to give you this. Itas not good.a I forgot all about Ortiz. Yvetteas driven everything else from my head.

Jimmy pulls something out of his utility vest and hands it to me. Itas the torn-in-half photo of Naemaas little brother I gave to Ortiz all those weeks ago, only crinkled and faded. The kidas still grinning out at me from his goofy long face, but three jagged creases run across his head now, and I notice more writing on the back than was there before. I turn the photo over. His name is still there in Naemaas handwriting, Zaki Ja.s.sim. But next to it, in different writing, is scrawled: July 9, 2003, shot in attempted escape. Deceased July 10.