Matt Gallagher - Youngblood

“Okay,” I said. Snoop figured out the details of when and where they were to meet Yousef’s driver. I’d already cracked open the screen door when I turned around.

“Snoop?” My voice rose like a weapon. “Ask him what he knows about Chambers. What he knows about the kill team.”

I waited out Snoop’s query and follow-ups, seconds that turned into a half minute. Even after the many months in Iraq, even after getting decent at understanding some words and phrases, I still had no idea how so many words in Arabic translated into so few words of English.

“He asks, ‘What do you want to know?’ Now that you’re businessmen together, he will say anything.”

I walked back to the glass case.

Yes, he’d heard the rumors about Chambers killing civilians. Yes, those rumors had been around during the time of Shaba, even before the death of Karim. No, he didn’t believe Shaba was involved, but then again, maybe so. They’d been friends.

Yes, he believed the rumors were true. Didn’t all Americans do that? But, well. There’d been the news reports of the murders of civilians in Haditha and Mahmudiyah around the same time. And people panic when they get scared.

Who else had been killed? Oh. People. There’d been a butcher named Mohammed. Other people. Friends of friends. He couldn’t remember their names.

“It’s been many years, molazim ,” he said. “Many years.”

Would he be willing to write a sworn statement about all this? Sure. He’d do it to honor our mutual friend, the mukhtar . Had he himself seen Chambers shoot a civilian? It depended.

“On what?” I asked.

“On what you wish me to write, molazim .”

We left and returned to the outpost. The soldiers didn’t want to be on patrol anymore, and neither did I. I couldn’t call Rana, either. We had to wait for her to reach out to us.

Chambers was in our room, so I went to the smoking patio. I tried reading a magazine, but couldn’t concentrate. I tried smoking, but my hands were shaking too much to light the damn cigarette. I tried thinking about what life would be like once we got back to Hawaii, but I couldn’t get past next couple of weeks.

I’d just robbed the U.S. military to pay off a smuggler connected to al-Qaeda. That had to be a felony.

Maybe even treason.

I’d never had a panic attack, so I didn’t know what the symptoms were, but suddenly I found it difficult to breathe, and my mind found it difficult to focus on anything. I got cold, so I plugged in the space heater, but then I was hot and started sweating a lot, especially my neck. My leg wouldn’t stop twitching. My thoughts were many and varied, but eventually they landed on Rana as I forced myself to inhale and then exhale and then again and then again.

I imagined how our conversation would go when she reached out. A phone call seemed easiest.

“Hey,” I’d say. “It’s me. It’s Jack.”

“Jack! Any news?”

“Yes. Though I’d prefer to tell you in person.”

“Oh.” A clumsy hush would fall across the conversation. I’d chide myself for being so goddamn direct. This isn’t California, I’d remind myself, and Rana isn’t a California type of girl.

“I don’t know,” she’d finally say. “Malek doesn’t share his schedule anymore.”

“Well, it’s taken care of. All of it.”

“And your man, Snoop?” she’d ask. “Were you able to pay for him, too?”

“Something like that,” I’d say. “He’ll be with you. Going to take care of you and your boys. Whatever you need.”

It’d been many years since I’d been unnerved like this, even in pretend — composing wishes, anticipating and destroying those chewy seconds that awaited on the other side of the phone. It was a nice feeling. Even in pretend.

“I think I’m falling in love with you,” I’d say. “I’m sorry if that’s too abrupt or too American or too whatever. But it’s how I feel. I want — I want you to know I did what I did because it was the right thing to do. But also because of how I feel about you and your children.” I’d stop, just for a second, to show how earnest and well-intentioned I was. “Thought you should know.”

The rest of the conversation would pass like smoke. I’d tell her to wrap her mother’s jewelry in clothing. Then I’d remind her to bring potable water and snacks for the trip. I didn’t trust Yousef or his people for any of that. “And layer,” I’d say. “Make sure you layer.” She’d chide me for being a nag.

“I’m the mother,” she’d say. “Not you.”

Then we’d laugh, together, a laugh rich with both possibilities and implications.

“What are you smiling at, LT?” It was Snoop, and we were on the smoking patio. It was raining lightly outside. “You okay?”

I groaned and checked the corners of my mouth for drool. The terp carried news on his face.

“Yousef just called. Change of plan. He say to be on the road at the reservoir bed at sunrise tomorrow, near Rana’s home. His driver will meet us there.”

“Tomorrow?”

He nodded.

I asked if he was ready. He said as ready as he’d ever be. He was worried about what the platoon would think. I said I’d handle them. I asked about his family in Little Sudan. He said they’d understand. I asked what he knew about Beirut. He said he knew there was a beach and a mountain with snow on it. I said that was probably enough. He said thank you, he’d never know how to repay me, that a lot of Americans talked about helping terps, but I’d been the only one who actually did. I said no problem, that he could buy the beers when I came to visit.

“Only thing left, then, is Rana and her boys,” I said.

“Yousef already took care of it.” Snoop cleared his throat. “She already knows to be there.”

“Oh.” Pangs of disappointment fell through me. I’d wanted to be the one to deliver the news. I turned and spat on the ground. “That’s great.”

The next morning, we waited at the reservoir bed in the elastic pause before dawn. And through it. And after it.

Eventually Snoop looked over at me from the other rear hatch of the Stryker. It’d been two hours. “I don’t think they’re coming, LT.”

He braved a smile. I ignored it.

“Call her again.” No one had picked up the previous ten calls, but maybe someone would this time.

No one did.

“Something must’ve gone wrong.” I shouted through the headset to wake the driver. “We’re heading back into town.”

The patrol moved east, into a hard yellow sun, and I told the driver to go faster, faster, until he said he wasn’t sure a twenty-ton armored vehicle should be going so fast, especially with the glare in his eyes.

I said to go goddamn faster.

We sped under the stone arch of Ashuriyah and the eyes of its watcher. Yousef wasn’t at Yousef’s. The shop boys didn’t know where he was, they hadn’t seen him since the day before. He was usually at work by now. Did we want any breakfast falafels?

We returned to the Stryker. “Where to now, sir?” Dominguez asked.

“I don’t know,” I said. “Give me a minute.”

I sat with Snoop and Doc Cork on the benches inside the vehicle. I took off my helmet and loosened my body armor. I made the driver turn off both the iPod and the external radio so I could think in silence.

“Sir?” Doc Cork asked gently. “What the hell’s going on?”

“It’s complicated.”

“Does it have to do with the Iraqi woman?”

I nodded.

“We got your back,” he said with a sincerity I found patronizing.

I ordered the patrol west again, back through the stone arch, to the hamlet with five small mud huts.

We dodged an IED on the way there. The driver saw a milk crate over what had been a pothole an hour earlier and swerved around it. The vehicles behind stopped short. We’d been half a second from potentially blowing into meat ornaments, and all I could think about was the delay this would cause.