Alex Berenson: The Shadow Patrol

“Yes. Come to Langley, and Duto and I will fill you in on the rest.”

Wells wondered what Evan would make of this offer. No doubt he’d dismiss it as macho crap, a pointless exercise.

“Great,” Wells said. “I’m in.”

In the village, five minutes ticked by. The sun lost itself behind a cloud. Young pulled open a pouch on his Kevlar vest, extracted a pack of Newports.

“You have to smoke Newports, Coleman? I can almost see you on a billboard wearing one of those Day-Glo orange suits. Right above an ad with Billy Dee Williams sipping from a quart bottle.”

Young took a deep drag, blew the smoke in Fowler’s direction. “Menthol tastes good. Plus you people don’t smoke them, so I don’t have to share.”

“You people.”

“White people. You’re the one who went there.”

“Lemme try one.”

“A white person?”

“Come on.”

Young tucked away the pack. Fowler surveyed the empty village.

“What are they doing?”

“Don’t know. And not guessing.”

“Where’s B Team?”

“Lighting up, probably. And nothing menthol. Nothing that comes in a pack.”

Fowler was embarrassed he hadn’t realized. Of course. The three soldiers on the B fire team had turned into hash smokers the last couple months. Along with half the rest of the platoon.

“What are we doing here, Coleman?”

“You’re tripping over your own damn feet. I’m trying to stay alive. Get home.”

“No, what are we doing here ? Right now.”

“Maybe Rodriguez found himself a kebab stand.”

“Kebabs.”

“Or tacos. I don’t know and I don’t care. You’re so curious, go check it out for yourself.”

Just that quick, Fowler decided he was tired of being scared. “You know what? I think I will.”

“You find any kebabs, let me know.”

THE STREET WAS FILLED with the random junk that was everywhere in Afghanistan, shreds of plastic and canvas, the stuff even the goats couldn’t eat. No metal, though. Metal was valuable. The Afghans salvaged it.

The village looked as dismal up close as it had from a distance. In richer areas, Afghans lived in compounds hidden by ten-foot mud-straw walls. Here the walls were barely waist-high, exposing the battered homes behind them. The air was sweet and greasy, with a bitter tang underneath. A mix of wood smoke, cooking oil, and sewage.

Fowler heard the voices of women and children hiding in the houses. The words faded as he moved closer, picked up again once he passed. They couldn’t see him and still they treated him like a leper. As if even their voices were a gift he didn’t deserve. He wanted to hate them. But then, they hadn’t asked him to come here. He reached the house where the Afghan had led Rodriguez and Roman. This was the fanciest place in town, the tallest midget, with seven-foot walls and a filigreed gate. He peeked through the filigree—

And a single shot cracked behind him. Fowler flattened himself against the wall, checked left and right. Chickens squawked wildly. Behind him, Young tossed away his cigarette and scanned the empty fields that lay between them and the rest of the platoon. Fowler wondered whether the Talibs had lured them out here to cut them off, trap them.

But nothing happened. Terror and boredom, the twin poles of infantry duty. The chickens chattered away. Fowler took advantage of their noise to pull open the gate. He slipped inside, two quick sliding steps.

The yard was empty aside from a rusty Weber gas grill, which didn’t make sense, and a brand-new ATV, which kinda did. A diesel engine, probably an electrical generator, hummed somewhere in back. Electricity and an ATV. By local standards, whoever owned this place was living large. Fowler eased the gate shut and waited for someone to open the door, walk out of the house. But no one did.

Fowler stepped forward, then hesitated, holding his left leg off the ground with the exaggerated care of Inspector Clouseau. He could explain everything he’d done so far. He could say he’d come up for orders. But if he sneaked up to the house to see what Rodriguez was doing inside… Spying on a sergeant was definitely a no-no.

But maybe he wasn’t spying at all. Maybe they needed him. Maybe the Talibs had captured Rodriguez and Roman. Fowler imagined them tied back-to-back. They looked up in awe as Fowler picked off the insurgents one by one, with the practiced double taps of a Special Forces lifer. Fowler saluted them casually: No need to thank me. Just doing my job. The vision was ridiculous. Still, it spurred him. He crossed the yard, pressed himself against the house.

And heard a voice. A woman. Moaning quietly. Had he stumbled on a brothel? Impossible. The Afghans stoned women to death just for talking to men. Fowler inched along the side of the house to a window covered by a wrought-iron grille. He lowered himself to his knees, peeked in—

And found himself watching porn. The video was playing on a television propped against the back wall. Rodriguez and Roman had come here to watch porn ? Fowler didn’t get it. Then he looked around the room and—

Everything made sense. Roman sat against the wall, a glass pipe in one hand, lighter in the other. He flicked the lighter to the pipe and sucked, greedy as a newborn. He exhaled a gray cloud and rubbed his stomach happily. “Good smoke,” he said to the ceiling. “Steep and deep.”

Rodriguez ignored the commentary. He stood next to a wooden table as the Afghan with the scar put two plastic-wrapped bricks on a digital scale. “Two point zero exactly. Sixteen kilos total.”

Rodriguez pulled a Ka-Bar, a knife, off his belt. He carefully sliced the plastic around one of the bricks. “What is that?” the Afghan said.

“Testing, one, two, three.” Rodriguez pulled a pouch from his backpack. “Soon as this powder in here turns green, we’re ready to go.”

“I promise you, it’s good.”

“From the factory to you,” Roman said. “Buy direct and save.”

Rodriguez stepped to the television and kicked over the DVD player hooked to it, stopping the show. “Stand post at the front door, Roman. Lemme finish, get us out of here. We wasted too much time already.”

“Sir, respectfully point out that I am stoned to the gills and not at full combat readiness—”

Rodriguez snapped the pipe from Roman’s hand. “Now. Before I jam this down your throat.”

Fowler picked up his helmet, pushed himself up, inched along the wall. Then he heard Roman’s gear rattling inside the house and his composure broke. He ran for the gate.

Back on the street, he closed the gate as smoothly as he could. He checked over his shoulder. The house’s front door was just opening. Fowler squared his shoulders and walked back to Coleman Young. He didn’t look back. He was proud of himself for that much anyway.

“I miss anything?” Young said.

“No kebabs. The door was closed and I couldn’t decide whether to knock. I stood there until I felt stupid and left.”

“That’s it.”

“That’s it.”

“Huh. What happened to your pants?”

Fowler looked down. His knees were covered with a dark brown splotch that stank of diesel. He must have knelt in a puddle without realizing. It was the porn’s fault. The porn had distracted him. He wiped madly at the stain and succeeded only in covering his hands with a greasy film. Might as well be wearing a sign that said “I’ve been spying on you, Sergeant.”

“It was a drug deal. A big one. They had a scale.”

“Don’t tell me.”

“Kilos. It’s true.”

Young grabbed Fowler’s Kevlar, pulled him close. “I don’t care if it’s true. I don’t want to hear it.”