Ian Slater - Choke Point

Freeman placed the goggles around the peaked cap. “I still maintain an extensive list of contacts in the forces,” he told David. “Keep tabs on what’s going on. Saw the report Beijing’s military attaché sent Washington. Said a young American girl was murdered because she overheard a couple of Li Kuan’s al Qaeda boys talking about making trouble in China’s Northwest — Xinjiang. Given what the President just said on the box, I take it Beijing figures we won’t object to whatever the PLA does because it’ll be fighting terrorists.”

“We’re all against terrorists,” said David.

“The Beijing attaché says this young woman, Riser — if I remember correctly, Amanda Riser — overheard these two creeps in a place called Barberry’s Pub Café in Suzhou.”

“Suzhou?” David couldn’t place it.

“About four hundred miles south of Beijing, on the Grand Canal,” said Freeman. “Point is that Barberry’s Pub Café is a bar .”

David was ensconced in the initial euphoria of the Oxycodone smothering the pain, finding it difficult not to close his eyes and luxuriate in the temporary escape. But he was far from what the unit’s pharmacist would call “Zombiefied.” “Uh-huh,” he responded, gazing out at ice cream clouds rising majestically in the endless blue of the Afghan sky. “Muslims, especially fanatical Muslims, don’t drink. They certainly don’t go to bars.”

“Right,” said the general, slapping on his cap and pulling out a business card from his load vest. “You need to talk, David, you can reach me at this number. It’s the USO.”

“I’d have thought Washington would have put you back on the active list.”

“They won’t even return my calls. Still pissed at me about the first Iraq war. Told ’em Bush Senior should’ve given Schwarzkopf the green light to roll on into Baghdad and kill the son of a bitch. Remember the old lube an’ oil change commercial, ’You pay me now or you pay me later’? Not going to Baghdad then meant we gave ’em twelve more years to build up their terrorist networks and finance al Qaeda.”

“You should call ’em about the bar,” David said, his gaze held captive by the majesty of the ice cream cumulonimbus rising and spreading into a line of bruising anvils. There was going to be, as Jamal would have said, “one mother of a storm” over the Hindu Kush. It would be an icy rain. He was thinking about the Barberry’s Pub Café again. “General?”

Freeman was pulling the goggles snugly below the Afrika Korps cap as the normally reserved Brentwood, in a painkiller-induced devil-may-care tone — one he’d normally use for a fellow Special Forces warrior and not a general — repeated forcefully, “Why don’t you call our military attaché in Beijing? About the bar?”

“I will.”

With that, the general collected his swagger stick. “Soon as I get back to USO HQ.”

“Where’s that?” asked David.

“Tora Bora,” replied Freeman, and gave a swashbuckling salute with the swagger stick, as Rommel might have done. Douglas Freeman despised what the SS and other Jew-hating Nazi scum had done, but in the Wehrmacht, the German army, there had been some soldiers of honor, and for Freeman, Rommel had been one of them.

David tried to write his weekly letter to his wife Melissa, but it was difficult — he told her he hoped he could handle an F2000 and convince them he was still battleworthy. For encouragement he drew on all the “impossible” diagnoses he knew and which were habitually cited by Special Forces as examples of grit overcoming extraordinary personal difficulties: Adolf Galland, Germany’s top air ace, had only one eye — cheated on the eye chart exam. How could he do that — fly a Messerschmidt 109 and later, in 1945, the Me 262, the worlds’ first jet fighter, with just one eye? He would have had no spatial perspective, no depth of field. And Douglas Bader, the Brit. Lost both legs in an air crash before the war. They said he could never fly again. “Not in a fighter, old chap!” He did, became an ace, was captured by the Germans, escaped so many times the commandant confiscated his tin legs.

But David’s all-time favorite was a man who had nothing to do with war, but with the combat of the soul: Lance Armstrong. Testicular cancer, lung cancer, brain cancer, and he fought back to win the toughest race in the world, the 2,160-mile-long Tour de France. Five times in a row! Most Americans, besotted by football, hockey, and basketball, didn’t comprehend the Herculean stamina and iron will that it took to be first among hundreds of the world’s elite cyclists. Some fool Frenchman complained, “But ’e is on chemicals.”

“That’s chemotherapy, you idiot!” came another American’s reply.

So, dammit, David thought, he could sure as hell learn to stay in the fight, to do what he’d been trained for. For now, however, his letter to Melissa would have to be painfully typed out on a computer, then sent to the unit censor, since e-mail contact with home had been temporarily suspended because of terrorist hackers who’d penetrated the U.S. Army’s computer network. The physical effort of having to type with his left hand afforded him much more time than he usually had to think about what he wanted to say to her and, most important, what to leave out. Besides, he knew he’d have to lead into it — cushion the news of his savage wound.

Dear Melissa,

Greetings from nowhere. This has to be the most forsaken place on earth. God was punishing somebody when he made this sun-baked jumble of rocks and dirt. Our unit G2 tells us it’s about the size of Texas. I asked him how many square miles of water there are and he just laughed. Zip. Zero. Nada. You see a tree here, you practically die of shock. And the people. I keep thinking when I was a kid — bashing the fridge to close it and saying there was too much damn food in there. Dad got after me for cussing and tore a strip off me for saying there was too much food — how great it was to live in a country where I could say that. “Poor” doesn’t even begin to describe the people here. A lot of them haven’t even got shoes, sandals — anything. Had one of them, a scout, on one of our missions. It was 35 degrees, just a tad above freezing, and he had nothing on his feet. Least we didn’t have to do that at—

He was about to write “Fort Benning,” but censored it himself and instead put “camp.”

I can’t like them, though. Remember how all the media used to talk about Northern Alliance against the Taliban? Well, at the end of the day I wouldn’t give you a dime for any of them. Most of them are still nothing but mercenaries — sell their own mother. Change sides like they change shirts — which, come to think of it, isn’t a good analogy. I’ve never seen one of them wash, let alone change. But you get what I mean — no loyalty at all to one side or the other. It’s all filthy lucre. Sort of like our Congress — ha, ha! On the other hand, I know we have to be here. After 9/11 we had no choice but to hunt the Taliban and al Qaeda down. And then go get Saddam. You remember the day one of our guys climbed up on Hussein’s statue and they pulled it down? And I’ll tell you one thing, we’re going to be here for years, and no matter what our politicians say. We pull out now, after having thrown out the Taliban, the creeps’ll come back from their hideaways in Pakistan in six months and we’ll have terrorist training camps all over. The present government we put in wouldn’t last for a week if we weren’t here. Look at the assassinations of officials since we’ve been here. And anyway, I don’t trust one sect more than the other when it comes to any idea of reform. The way they still treat women — no better than baggage. That’s getting better now but it’s going to take a long time. What gets me is the Afghans say they want an end to war but the first thing they want to get their hands on is a Kalashnikov. It’s like Northern Ireland and all those other places, I guess — fighting’s become a habit. Sometimes I don’t think they know what the heck they’re fighting for — it’s just what they know how to do.