Matt Gallagher - Youngblood

He’d regained his composure by the time he made it down the hall, following me into the office. He started whistling, low and without melody.

“So she’s the one you’re fucking,” he said.

“No. She’s a source,” I said slowly, in that way of sounding calm while conveying the opposite. “She saved us from the IED at Sayonara Station.”

“And you never bothered to tell me it was Rana al-Badri?” He spat out her name, voice cracking. Then he slammed his fist into his palm. The skulls on his right forearm shook from the impact. “I’m your fucking platoon sergeant. I deserve to know these things.”

“Whatever, man.” He couldn’t talk to me like that. I was the head motherfucker in charge. “I’m not going to get lectured by a guy who lies about fallen comrades. De Oppresso Liber ? Try ‘Infidel.’ ”

His gray eyes narrowed, followed by an ugly sneer. I braced for a punch that never came; instead, he sat down on the table and gripped its underside with his wristless hands.

“And you think we’ve been hiding shit at night,” he said, shaking his head. He started rummaging around his cargo pockets for something, probably dip, but couldn’t find any. “Unreal.” I thought we were about to have a heart-to-heart, or something near it, when his head snapped up, the creases in his face cutting through the shadows of the room.

“If I’m a hammer, you’re a snake, sneaking around like this,” he said.

“Fuck off.” I didn’t like being called a snake, no one would, so I turned sarcastic. “And let’s stop with the incongruent animal metaphors. Scorpions. Snakes. Spiders. Beasts in the hearts of fighting men. We get it, okay?”

It felt good to be standing up to him, even though it’d taken the embarrassment of being caught talking with Rana to bring it out. He was surprised by it, too. He took a deep breath and searched his pockets again, to no avail. Finally, he hooted, just once, like he’d done in the spring after shooting the goat.

“ ‘ In-con-gruent .’ Hell of a college word.”

I felt my shoulders relax. “Pretty sure I used it correctly, but I’d have to check.”

He leaned back and crossed his ankles, tapping one boot against the carpet. He wanted an explanation, I realized. Maybe he deserved one.

“I haven’t done anything wrong, I swear,” I said. “Just knew you’d freak if you knew it was her.” The half lies were coming out so easily, little drops in a bucket that had room for more. “Her intel is good. Let me do my thing, Sergeant. This isn’t my first rodeo.”

From outside, I heard wind rambling across the desert. The forecast called for more rain in the coming week. Chambers seemed most interested in a sore that had developed below one of his earlobes, he kept picking at it. It took a lot to not tell him that was how things got infected. He eventually stopped.

“She got him killed,” he said. “Maybe not on purpose, but that doesn’t matter. He turned into a goddamn maniac because of her. Started going off post by himself. Started talking about staying here.” His voice sounded remote, wistful even, until it wasn’t anymore. “Some men can’t act rationally when there’s poon involved. Elijah was one. What do you think, Lieutenant — you able to keep your head around females?”

“I already said I haven’t touched her.” My teeth were clenched. “I’m not going to say it again.” That wasn’t exactly a counter to Chambers’ statement, but it needed to be said again. When he didn’t respond, I walked to the door, saying I needed some sleep. I felt his eyes on my back, hard and doubting, but he said nothing.

I called Will and asked for five grand. He didn’t inquire why, just when and how. “I trust this matters” was all he said.

The Bank of America branch at Camp Independence proved more inquisitive when I pulled my savings account, twenty thousand dollars in all. I said it was to help pay for a new pickup truck from the base dealership.

“Tax-free over here,” I said. “Couldn’t resist.”

That still left me — left us — twenty-five thousand dollars short of Yousef’s price. Something the unit’s Sahwa payment could cover.

It seemed easy, in theory. Purchase a black backpack at the base exchange. Sign out the Sahwa money and the second black backpack. Return to the outpost, leave the backpack with the money in the Stryker while taking the empty backpack to the outpost’s arms room. No one would notice it was empty for a couple of weeks, not until Captain Vrettos got around to scheduling the payday. By then, Rana and Ahmed and Karim would be safe in Beirut.

It had to be now. After this payment, we were done paying the Sahwa. It was the Iraqi government’s turn.

It had to be now.

The soldiers won’t notice the pack switch, I thought. They leave Iceberg Slim business to Iceberg Slim.

Four days after Rana came to the outpost, we returned to the falafel shop.

I told the soldiers to remain with the vehicles as Snoop and I went to meet with Yousef. “Won’t be long,” I said.

I couldn’t tell if the soldiers in the back of my vehicle were interested in the black canvas backpack I held or if I was imagining it. “An old friend, by the telephone pole,” Dominguez said through his headset as the ramp dropped. “Might want to say hi.”

Sure enough, as I stepped into the afternoon, I spotted the Barbie Kid across the street, sitting on his cooler. He was dressed the same as when I’d last seen him at Fat Mukhtar’s: pink sweatpants caked with mud, oversized khaki top, sneakers on his feet. He flipped us off with both hands, his unibrow bending into a frown.

“Arab fuck,” Snoop said, balling his hands into fists. “Must want trouble.”

“No need, man,” I said. “Leave him be.”

The tin shack smelled of hot goat and dough. The shop boys left. I placed the backpack on the glass case.

“Hope you accept dollars,” I said.

Yousef reached for the pack, but I pulled it away. “One thing. You take him, too.” I nodded at Snoop. “A young man to help the driver will make the journey easier.”

He agreed without much fanfare. Snoop couldn’t contain his grin; he hadn’t believed me when I’d shared the plan. I handed over the backpack, and the Iraqi started counting. When he finished, Yousef looked up, hazel and cataract brown finally finding its mark.

“Half now.” The Sahwa money. “Half later.” The Porter brothers’ money, currently in a mandated seventy-two-hour withdrawal hold. “When they arrive safely.” I’d seen gangster movies. I knew this was how it worked.

Rather than agree or demand full payment, Yousef pointed to my chest, where Saif’s pistol was secured.

“He wants the Glock,” Snoop said. “A weapon of power for Iraqis, especially that color. He will give a better deal for it.”

“This was a gift,” I said. “From a friend.”

At that, Yousef laughed and coughed in tandem, an ugly sort of throat swirl. Then he asked how I felt about the concept of truth. Snoop translated, confused by the old man’s words. The money sat on the glass case between the three of us like roadkill, no one wanting to touch it, no one able to look away, either.

I shrugged and said that while I didn’t believe in truth anymore, I’d listen, as long as he made it quick. Rana needed to know things were going to be all right.

“You ask people about Karim and Shaba?”

“Sí.”

“They were arrogant. Dogs,” he said, waiting for Snoop to translate. “They thought this was a game. It wasn’t about Rana. It was about power.”

The sticky air soaked up Yousef’s words. Beneath the body armor, my sweat-soaked undershirt clung to my body. The accounts of these dead men were always so disparate from one another that it felt that with each thread I found and pulled at, the entire past was unraveling into a meaningless pile of knots. Yousef waited behind the glass case, slowly putting away the backpack, his eyes back to the wall behind us.