Green on Blue by Elliot Ackerman Page A

Yar’s authority. He added: Atal is a dog, and Mr. Jack is his handler. You only have to tug his collar to make him look the right way.
    Yar rubbed together the three fingers of his cleft rooster hand, suggesting Atal’s financial itch. If it was money Atal wanted, it made sense he sold information to Mr. Jack. He had the money. Mr. Jack funded the Special Lashkar, too, and by that measure also owned us. As we ate our food paid for by the Americans, none of us seemed that different from Atal. And the suspicion we had for him, or the loyalty we had for each other, or the hatred we had for Gazan, all of it seemed of much less concern than the meal in front of us, and tomorrow’s.
    The group would sit in the mess hall and idly talk until sleep overcame them. Then they’d stagger back to the barracks. I excused myself and took my tray and dishes to the kitchen window where Naseeb now worked in a grease-stained apron behind a sink. I handed him the scraps of my meal and thanked him.
    You are quite welcome, he said.
    You have to do all the cleanup? I asked. This is a tough punishment.
    It is not mine to question, he replied.
    It is a dangerous thing Gazan’s men have done, turning our supplies and guns against us, I said.
    It is just the way of it, Naseeb answered. We take from them. They take from us.
    This way has not worked out well for you, I told him.
    Yes, yes, but if I was not here, things would be worse for me, he replied. Just as it is with you.
    Yes, I agreed quietly.
    Naseeb again hunched over a tall stack of plates and scrubbed. Each stroke seemed to redden his eyes and pull the color from his fat face. The other cooks sat against the sinks and stoves, gossiping.
    –
    I stepped outside and sat atop a wooden picnic table that ran along the mess hall’s back wall. The night was cold, but I paid it no mind. I wanted to be alone and still. I put my feet on the bench and leaned into my legs to warm my body. With my feet off the earth, the cold couldn’t seep up through my boots. I buried my hands deep into my pockets and stared at a milky smudge across the night sky. I thought of my brother, far away and in the hospital, lying on his back, at the mercy of Taqbir and the supervisor with his fat paunch and sweaty bald head. The idea unnerved me, but, just like Atal, the supervisor was motivated by money, and that was a plain motivation, simple and, in its simplicity, reliable.
    I also fought for money, so if men like Atal were corrupt, then so was I. As long as I stayed a soldier and my pay went to the hospital, my brother would be cared for. My war was as simple and honest as that. There was no cause in it except the cause of survival. Had I killed for money? Perhaps. Perhaps it was a round from my machine gun that had killed the man on the ridge a few days ago. I had no feud with him. If I killed him I did it for money. Atal sold information to Mr. Jack for money, too, the money to care for Fareeda. What could be corrupt in that? Yet that money also paid for his large house, generator, and HiLux. Still, the truly corrupt have unreliable motivations, and money is one of the most reliable.
    My eyes adjusted in the night. Slowly the outline of the motor pool, the barracks, and Commander Sabir’s quarters revealed themselves. A trickle of soldiers left the mess hall. None of them noticed me sitting on the picnic table. Their eyes hadn’t adjusted to the darkness, and they stumbled toward their beds.
    Commander Sabir’s door flew open. From it, warm tobacco smokerose into the cold night. The squad leaders, Issaq and Batoor, emerged with faces so flushed they appeared swollen. They talked in loud drunken booms. Commander Sabir stepped between them and yawned into the sky with a silent roar. He pulled a pack of Marlboro Reds from his shoulder pocket and lit one between his teeth.
    Issaq spoke, his voice flat: Give us a week before the checkpoints.
    Despite all their carrying on, the three were in a negotiation.
    Two days,