Matt Gallagher - Youngblood

I spun around quickly, like a dancer. The two of them had risen from the table, and while Snoop’s face was lit with interest, Alia’s remained fixed on the ground.

“Nothing like that,” I said. “Just something to do.”

It took a lot of resolve not to slam the door behind me.

Captain Vrettos went to Camp Independence that evening for a meeting. His patrol left a little after dusk. I forced myself to wait ten minutes and then walked across the outpost to dig through the files in his room.

I looked in at the command post first. The TV was on, a ragtag, rebellious police squad discussing how to bring down a mighty drug ring. The pulse in my neck felt like a giant’s steps, but none of the guys on duty seemed to notice. All they cared about was the television screen. I backed across the empty hallway to the commander’s room, trying to look natural.

A Master Lock held the door fast. Captain Vrettos was a bit of a paranoiac, always demanding the corner seat, asking if his name had been mentioned in gatherings he missed. I figured it had something to do with the brutality of his first deployment to Samarra, or the whispers about his “alternative lifestyle” back home. Regardless, he’d shared the number combo with the company officers in case of emergency.

I doubted this met his definition, but it met mine.

Dank and cluttered, the room resembled an opium den as much as it did the headquarters of a military commander. Maps of Iraq and Ashuriyah covered part of the gray Sheetrock walls; the rest was swathed in dirty uniforms, undershirts, and two woodland camo ponchos on hooks. A Rod Stewart poster from a 1992 concert in Berlin hung over the corner bed, a green cot with an orthopedic pillow and a poncho liner bunched together. The sandbagged window let nothing in; the only light came from a desk lamp that made Rod’s feathered yellow mullet gleam.

“Christ, sir,” I said. “No wonder you’re grumpy all the time.”

I turned to the steel desk at the foot of Captain Vrettos’ cot. During planning sessions, he’d pointed to the filing cabinets and complained about the backlog. Our outpost had been established in 2004 and every unit rotating home left junk for its replacement to sift through: intel reports, promotion and award packets, vehicle manifests, et cetera. After seven years, that junk had piled up. Some of us had suggested destroying it all, but Captain Vrettos had said no, for fear of throwing away something higher might request. So the backlog remained, our own company adding to its annals daily.

In one of the cabinets, somewhere in the paper mines, I hoped to find a nugget about Rios or the dead local or something — anything — that would rid me of Chambers. His sermon after the goat roast had stuck with me, and though I didn’t understand the dark thoughts it’d filled me with, I knew I didn’t like them.

It was slow going, especially when I got to the spreadsheets. I’d never been mistaken for a patient man, and avoiding file cabinets was one of the reasons I’d joined the army to begin with. My pulse eased, but the nerves stayed. What if the commander came back early? What if one of the soldiers noticed the open lock? What if Chambers went looking for me?

Two and a half hours after breaking in, I checked my watch. The commander’s patrol would be back in an hour or so. My eyes ached and my head swam slowly, like a goldfish. Hundreds of folders and papers surrounded me in haphazard piles I’d failed to keep organized. Other than a 2008 investigation into a lieutenant pocketing funds intended for local business grants, I’d found nothing of note.

I fought off quitting one more time and reached into the back of a new cabinet pocket, pulling out a stack of manila folders. Most were filled with equipment inventories stamped with First Cav unit designators. Near the bottom of the stack was a thin, cream-colored folder labeled “Fumble Recovery.” Three typed sworn statements slid out, all from the spring of 2006. Two were xeroxed copies, while the third was smudged with dirt and had been folded in half. Rios’ name was sprinkled throughout each.

“Here we go,” I said.

“Hotspur Six.” My body went rigid. I hadn’t expected a response.

I was fucked. Done for. Caught red-handed snooping through my commander’s room. How hadn’t I heard Captain Vrettos come in? I put my hands up like I’d seen meth addicts do on television, stood up, and turned around to face my fate.

“Hotspur Six, do you copy?”

There was no one else in the room.

My mental bearings snapped into place. I was still alone. Captain Vrettos was still at Camp Independence. The voice was coming from the walkie-talkie clipped to my belt loop.

“Hotspur Six, this is Hotspur Six-Golf. You copy?” It was Dominguez.

I took a deep breath before answering. “This is Hotspur Six.”

“There you are. You’re needed at the front gate. Got a local here requesting to speak to an officer. I think.”

With Captain Vrettos at Camp Independence, and the other platoon leaders on patrol, that left me. I folded the manila file in half and jammed it in a pocket.

“There in five. You copy, CP?”

“We copy, Hotspur Six.”

“Send a runner to wake Snoop.”

“Roger.”

I cleaned my mess hastily, throwing piles of folders and papers into the desk. I uttered a silent prayer to whichever deity protected office interlopers, slung my rifle, and poked my head into the hallway. It was empty. I secured the lock and walked downstairs, ignoring the urge to turn around and put faces to the watchers I felt behind me, real or imagined.

•  •  •

The Arabian night was cool and blue. I circled our sandstone citadel, navigating the razor wire and blast walls that surrounded it in layers. Pale blinking lights in the distance helped guide me to the front gate, beacons courtesy of the few locals wealthy enough to purchase generators. The squat two-story buildings across the dirt road were about a hundred feet and a world away; the entire block was dark and abandoned, and had been since America made this place an edge of empire.

“It’s the sir! Ain’t it past your bedtime?”

“What’s up, Hog.” It was my crew on shift again, mostly: Hog, Dominguez, Alphabet, and a husky private from third platoon named Batule. They stood in front of a Humvee, machine gun barrel pointing up at the muddy stars.

“Tool, why aren’t you out with your platoon?” I asked.

“Part of your platoon now,” Batule said. “Swapped bunks this afternoon.”

“Who authorized that?”

“The platoon sergeants, I guess.”

Dominguez spoke, all monotony and undertone. “Platoon daddies talking trades. I’d expect more to come.”

Another power play by Chambers, I thought. Even though senior enlisted managed personnel, they were supposed to run these things by their officers. It was a matter of decorum. I sized up Batule. Thick, dense, and prone to smashing things. Chambers’ ideal, no doubt.

“Where’s this hajj?” I said, more harshly than intended. “And where is Snoop? I don’t have all night.”

As if on cue, Haitham stumbled out of the black and into sight. The little man held a glass bottle and reeked of whiskey and filth. He wore an oversized soccer jersey, the green one of the Iraqi national team, and moved with a limp.

“The fuck you been?” I asked. “And what happened to your leg?”

“Molazim!”

He dropped his bottle, which met packed dirt with a thud, and grabbed my shoulders with both hands.

“Molazim!” he said. “Karim! Ali baba! Okht! Karim… keeel! Shaytan keeel Karim! Karim okht! Ali baba! Okht! ”

His rotting teeth and hell breath were too much, so I pushed him off. Haitham’s eyes bulged, and he collapsed to the ground, rocking himself back and forth, his head between his knees. I couldn’t tell if he was talking to himself or crying.