dropped the branch and reached for Lenny. “You dummy,” he said to the retriever. “You’re gonna get lost.”
“Ought to keep an eye on him. I almost hit him.”
“You’re right. My mistake.”
The biker rolled closer. The man felt oddly light-headed. He knows. I’m not sure how, but he knows. Why had he left his Smith & Wesson in his basement?
“Well?”
“Well what?”
“Shouldn’t you put him back on the leash?”
“Sure. Of course.” He reattached the leash. “Thanks for bringing him back.”
“No prob, man.” The biker nodded victoriously and turned down the hill. The man in the windbreaker sat down and waited for his pulse to return to normal. After all his years of tradecraft, he couldn’t believe that a jackass on a souped-up twelve-speed had almost busted him.
“Lenny. You almost caused me big trouble.”
Instead of answering, the dog squatted to relieve himself. Or maybe that was his answer, the man in the green windbreaker thought. He let Lenny take his time, waiting until he could no longer see the biker, until he could no longer feel his heart thumping sideways in his chest. When he was sure he was alone, he turned back to retrieve the branch—and the instructions inside.
9
WELLS WALKED DOWN A WHITE SAND BEACH, dipping his feet into the waves lapping along the shore. The water was the clearest blue imaginable, so bright it almost seemed neon. Exley lay on the beach under an umbrella, wearing a modest bikini that changed color as he looked at it, now red, now yellow, now green with camouflage stripes. That’s wrong, he told her. War isn’t sex. But she didn’t hear.
He turned back to the ocean. Instead of sand, the water covered a bank of fluorescent lights. Off, he said to Exley. Turn them off. She ignored him, and when he looked for her, she was gone. He tried to run for her, but the waves ripped him away from the beach, away from her—
“Mr. Brown.”
Wells woke, muzzy-headed, to a hand shaking his shoulder. Instead of a beach, he was on a C-17. The cabin stank of sweat and stale unwashed bodies. They’d been airborne for twenty hours.
“You okay, sir? Look a little green.”
“Fine, Lieutenant.” Wells rolled his head, futilely trying to unlock the scar tissue in his back. Instead of standard seats, the military plane had plastic benches screwed to its walls. They seemed designed to torture the spine.
“Lieutenant, how long was I out for?”
“Five hours, give or take,” the lieutenant said. “We’ll be down in forty-five. Pilot just turned on the lights.”
The lights. That accounted for his dream, Wells thought. All around him, men in fatigues were slapping themselves awake, swigging mouthwash, stretching, anything to shake off the boredom of an 11,000-mile journey. Wells had hitched a ride to Bagram Air Base in Afghanistan with the 504th Parachute Infantry Regiment of the 82nd Airborne, which was being sent overseas for the third time in five years. Macho chatter filled the cabin, soldiers psyching themselves up for the grueling days to come:
“Ready to land?”
“Heck no, Sergeant. Let’s spend another day in this tin can.”
“Ramirez, is that my toothbrush?”
“Nuh-uh, moron. Check your ass—it’s probably stuck there.”
“Think this is what it’s like to be an astronaut? When I was a kid, I always wanted to be an astronaut.”
“You can’t even find Uranus, Roberts—get it? Uranus. Like—”
“I get it.”
“All right, who farted?”
“Who didn’t?”
Then, from the back of the cabin, the all-purpose Army cheer: “Hoo-ah!”
“Hoo-ah!”
“Those Talibs ain’t gonna know what hit ’em! They going down like Chinatown!”
“Hoo-ah!”
“Like your sister on prom night!”
“Hoo -ah! ”
“We’re sending Osama straight to hell!”
“Hoo-ah! Hoo-ah!” At first out of sync, but then melding into one giant “HOO-AH!” so loud the cabin rattled.
Hoo-ah: short for “Heard, Understood, Acknowledged.”
“Ought to keep an eye on him. I almost hit him.”
“You’re right. My mistake.”
The biker rolled closer. The man felt oddly light-headed. He knows. I’m not sure how, but he knows. Why had he left his Smith & Wesson in his basement?
“Well?”
“Well what?”
“Shouldn’t you put him back on the leash?”
“Sure. Of course.” He reattached the leash. “Thanks for bringing him back.”
“No prob, man.” The biker nodded victoriously and turned down the hill. The man in the windbreaker sat down and waited for his pulse to return to normal. After all his years of tradecraft, he couldn’t believe that a jackass on a souped-up twelve-speed had almost busted him.
“Lenny. You almost caused me big trouble.”
Instead of answering, the dog squatted to relieve himself. Or maybe that was his answer, the man in the green windbreaker thought. He let Lenny take his time, waiting until he could no longer see the biker, until he could no longer feel his heart thumping sideways in his chest. When he was sure he was alone, he turned back to retrieve the branch—and the instructions inside.
9
WELLS WALKED DOWN A WHITE SAND BEACH, dipping his feet into the waves lapping along the shore. The water was the clearest blue imaginable, so bright it almost seemed neon. Exley lay on the beach under an umbrella, wearing a modest bikini that changed color as he looked at it, now red, now yellow, now green with camouflage stripes. That’s wrong, he told her. War isn’t sex. But she didn’t hear.
He turned back to the ocean. Instead of sand, the water covered a bank of fluorescent lights. Off, he said to Exley. Turn them off. She ignored him, and when he looked for her, she was gone. He tried to run for her, but the waves ripped him away from the beach, away from her—
“Mr. Brown.”
Wells woke, muzzy-headed, to a hand shaking his shoulder. Instead of a beach, he was on a C-17. The cabin stank of sweat and stale unwashed bodies. They’d been airborne for twenty hours.
“You okay, sir? Look a little green.”
“Fine, Lieutenant.” Wells rolled his head, futilely trying to unlock the scar tissue in his back. Instead of standard seats, the military plane had plastic benches screwed to its walls. They seemed designed to torture the spine.
“Lieutenant, how long was I out for?”
“Five hours, give or take,” the lieutenant said. “We’ll be down in forty-five. Pilot just turned on the lights.”
The lights. That accounted for his dream, Wells thought. All around him, men in fatigues were slapping themselves awake, swigging mouthwash, stretching, anything to shake off the boredom of an 11,000-mile journey. Wells had hitched a ride to Bagram Air Base in Afghanistan with the 504th Parachute Infantry Regiment of the 82nd Airborne, which was being sent overseas for the third time in five years. Macho chatter filled the cabin, soldiers psyching themselves up for the grueling days to come:
“Ready to land?”
“Heck no, Sergeant. Let’s spend another day in this tin can.”
“Ramirez, is that my toothbrush?”
“Nuh-uh, moron. Check your ass—it’s probably stuck there.”
“Think this is what it’s like to be an astronaut? When I was a kid, I always wanted to be an astronaut.”
“You can’t even find Uranus, Roberts—get it? Uranus. Like—”
“I get it.”
“All right, who farted?”
“Who didn’t?”
Then, from the back of the cabin, the all-purpose Army cheer: “Hoo-ah!”
“Hoo-ah!”
“Those Talibs ain’t gonna know what hit ’em! They going down like Chinatown!”
“Hoo-ah!”
“Like your sister on prom night!”
“Hoo -ah! ”
“We’re sending Osama straight to hell!”
“Hoo-ah! Hoo-ah!” At first out of sync, but then melding into one giant “HOO-AH!” so loud the cabin rattled.
Hoo-ah: short for “Heard, Understood, Acknowledged.”
Similar Books
