Brendan DuBois - Dead of Night

‘Damn it, I can’t just sit here and—’

The bolt of the M-16 snapped back. ‘The hell you can’t. You’re a civilian, Sammy, and if I give you that pistol, that’s just wasted rounds. And we can’t afford wasted rounds.’

Charlie was right—but, God, I hated him so at that moment. I looked back at Peter, who was successfully reloading his pistol with one hand, and I brought my binoculars up again to focus on the mine entrance. I saw some flashes of light there, as the militia units poured fire down at us and at our comrades across the stream bed. Then there was a place where the brush and trees thinned out and I could actually make out people moving, people with their hands on their heads—prisoners—and the last person in line, moving up the hill, had long blonde hair.

I dropped the binoculars, got back down behind the Land Cruiser, looked to my left at Peter and to my right at Charlie. I was trying decide which way to go, so I could ford that stream and do something, when the ground seemed to reach up and slap me down with an enormous boom!

I wasn’t out for very long, just a minute or two, but I was flat on my back, trying to get some breath into my lungs. I stared up at the smoky sky and at the oily undercarriage of the Land Cruiser, and Peter was yelling from what seemed like a long distance away. I got up and rubbed at my face, and Peter’s voice was clearer now: ‘Samuel, the first-aid kit! Now!’

He wasn’t at the front of the Land Cruiser and I turned and saw him with Charlie, who had been dragged back to where the rear tires were. The APC that had been returning fire was on its side now as well, burning furiously, its tires shredded and melting, and something that looked like a person was halfway out of one of the hatches, burning as well I couldn’t bear to look at that for another second, so I got back inside the Land Cruiser, again falling down through the open door, and unclipped the kit from a bulkhead. I got back out and down on the ground, moving my jaw and trying to swallow—my ears felt like they were stuffed with cotton.

Charlie was on his back, his face a mess of blood, I opened the kit and Peter got to work, pulling out bandages and tape. He yelled, ‘Over here, hold this here,’ and I did as I was told, holding a thick compress to the back of Charlie’s head. I kept the pressure up while Peter, working one-handed, used a pair of scissors, cutting up Charlie’s left pants leg, which was soaked through with blood. I glanced around. The firing had lessened. The three APCs across the way were still shooting, but it didn’t seem like there was much return fire. The tents and buildings of the mine were smoldering, making a lot of smoke but not much fire.

‘Keep that pressure up, mate, just keep that pressure up,’ Peter said, swearing as he worked on one of Charlie’s legs.

I just nodded, trying again to catch my breath. I looked around once more, trying to take it all in. The body of the Japanese guy was still in the middle of the road, the soldiers from the undamaged but overturned APC were still firing -slower, just like everybody else — and the other APC was still burning. Charlie was gurgling now, his breathing getting more raspy.

Peter was working as best he could with one hand, and said, ‘Keep that pressure up, you hear me?’

‘Yeah, I hear you,’ I said.

The bandage I was pressing against Charlie’s head was now getting moist, and then actually wet, with blood.

But I kept up the pressure.

About an hour later I was standing by the destroyed wooden bridge, looking over the stream bed at the smoking ruins of what had been the most successful mass-grave recovery that UNFORUS had carried out as part of their mandate in the United States.

For about half a day, before the militias had attacked.

In the mess of timbers and planking—and the consensus was that it was a well-hidden, command-detonated mine that had taken out the bridge—a medic crew was trying to extricate whoever might be still alive in the crumpled-up Land Cruiser. Helicopters were now overhead, having quickly replaced their fallen mechanical comrades, and the road behind me was a moving mass of ambulances, APCs and soldiers who were going out into the woods, armed and ready to fight the shadows that had come out earlier and had shattered us. It was dusk and the growing darkness made me shiver. But I still stared up at that spot where I had seen a blonde woman being led away.

‘Hey, Samuel,’ came a voice, and I turned around. Peter was there, one arm in a sling, his other hand holding on to a radio.

‘You OK?’ I asked.

He moved his arm, winced. ‘Just temporary, until I get to the hospital.’

‘How’s Charlie doing?’

Peter tried to shrug, winced again. ‘He got dusted off about fifteen minutes ago. He’s holding on, but… Well, he’s holding on. He’s a tough Marine. And thanks for your help.’

I said nothing, turned back to look over at the camp. It looked like organized chaos as people moved around, either shouting orders or obeying them. Most of the people were heavily armed, and helicopters landed and took off every few minutes. Every now and then I picked up my binoculars, did a scan. Nothing of interest. Nothing.

Peter said, ‘We should head back.’

‘No.’

‘What are you going to do, head on up into the woods after her?’

‘It’s a thought.’

He squeezed my shoulder. ‘Let the professionals do their work, Samuel. They’ll find her.’

I looked back at him—in amazement, I guess. ‘Professionals? What professionals? We just got the shit kicked out of us, or haven’t you noticed? And how long before the armistice gets put back in—after all, we all want peace, right? How long before Miriam is just listed as one of the many missing? That’s the new professionalism, isn’t it?’

Peter let his hand fall away from my shoulder. ‘I can’t answer that, and I don’t want to, because you’re probably right. Look, Samuel, we need to go. First, you need a meal and some rest. Second, if you try to do anything tonight the UN guys are just going to grab you and prevent you from doing shit. What Miriam needs from you is a healthy and rested Samuel. That’s all you can do for her, at this moment.’

I thought about something and said, ‘The diskettes.’

‘Yeah?’

‘They’re… they’re safe? Tell me they’re safe.’

‘Yeah, they’re safe. Halfway across the Atlantic at this moment, ready to be presented to the PM tomorrow.’

‘At least that wasn’t fucked up,’ I said.

Peter said, ‘Come on, we should go.’

I brought the binoculars back up to my eyes. It was get-ting too dark to see anything clearly and I knew the guys over there wouldn’t want to set up any lighting, not yet.

I turned. ‘Yeah, you’re right. Let’s get the hell out of here.’

We went back to our overturned Land Cruiser, and I made out the wet area in the dirt where Charlie had been bleeding. A crew of some sort was at work at the burned-out APC, and I averted my eyes. I had seen plenty today, thank you. Peter went on up ahead to talk to an officer in fatigues and blue helmet, and while he was talking I noticed Charlie’s M-16, resting on the ground. I kicked at it and it fell into the weeds by the side of the roadway. I followed and started kicking again, this time at the embankment, kicking and kicking until I’d dug a hole. Then I pushed the rifle in, tumbled the dirt back over it, and went up to Peter and waited to be evacuated.

I refused to look back at the few lights and smoldering fires that marked where the recovery camp had been.

The next day, stiff and groggy from not enough sleep, I found my way to a particular hospital room, a ward, really, where curtains had been drawn around the beds to give the patients some form of privacy. Finding the right bed wasn’t a problem: the Marines in fatigues grouped around it made it easy to locate. They looked back at me and their strong faces beneath short haircuts gave me a very disapproving look, because, after all, I was a civilian. And all civilians do is to send in their military to clean up their messes.