[Rogue Warrior 18] Curse of the Infidel (19 page)

“Well.”

“You take the instrument to Torrence, I’ll get the badge. I’ll meet you back here in ten. Don’t screw around with her, all right? She’s the one person in this place you don’t want to mess with.” Mongoose put his lips together and gave him a knowing nod. “And you owe me. You got it?”

“Yeah, uh yeah. Thanks.”

Two minutes later, Mongoose entered the room where the autopsy was taking place. The corpsman stood with a surgical saw in his hand, across the table from a short, Chinese-American doctor who was talking into a voice recorder. The dead man lay between them. He hadn’t been cut up yet, but he didn’t look particularly happy at the prospect. The two other bodies were behind them, waiting their turn.

The doctor looked over at Mongoose. Mongoose looked at his friend.

“You made it,” said the corpsman.

Mongoose nodded. Once again he’d lost his voice, but this had nothing to do with love—he worried that if he opened his mouth, there’d be nothing holding back the contents of his stomach.

“This is a buddy of mine who wants to be a corpsman, Doc,” the sailor said. “I thought this would be a good intro—make sure he can take it.”

“As long as the dead man doesn’t object.”

This apparently was a joke, because the doctor and the corpsman began laughing uproariously.

The doctor began doing a play-by-play of the procedure, explaining in great detail what they were doing as he examined bullet wounds and judged their effect. Mongoose spent the entire time concentrating on keeping his teeth in proper autopsy position: together.

Bullet wounds recorded and examined, the doctor moved on to the next part of the autopsy—checking whether the dead man had been under the influence of drugs at the time of his death, looking for heart disease or other possible contributing factors …

“The silent killers,” said the corpsman.

Another apparent autopsy joke. Their laughter was
almost
enough to wake the dead.

A few moments later, the doctor asked the corpsman for the saw.

At that point, Mongoose found it difficult to breathe. He retreated to a restroom at the rear of the room. The corpsman found him sitting on the floor some forty-five minutes later.

“You all right?” asked the sailor.

“I’m good,” mumbled Mongoose. “Something I ate.”

“Don’t sweat it. You aren’t the first SEAL I’ve met with a queasy stomach.”

“Listen, I need to find out who they were.”

“Huh?”

“It’s a long story. You got IDs?”

“No. No one does. They’re John Does. Police say they’re not from the city. We’re doing DNA samples. We’ll run them through the military registry, do the whole routine. Maybe there’s a match with a name in the database.”

Even Mongoose, who has lost more than his share of money at the Kentucky Derby, knew the odds on that were astronomically poor.

“Damn.”

“Send me an e-mail and I’ll give you whatever information we pull out,” said the corpsman. “Here’s a clinic card—just use that e-mail at the bottom.”

“Thanks.”

“Word of advice,” he added, backing toward the door. “Stay away from the fish next time you’re planning on watching an autopsy. Tastes great, but smells like hell on the way out.”

“I’ll try to remember that,” Mongoose managed.

(V)

Talking to Indian politicians is a lot like talking to American politicians. They nod their heads, smile wistfully, and then explain in a hundred and one different ways why they can’t do what makes the most sense.

“Local prerogatives” was one of the buzz words that night, as the politicians attempted to explain why every district and state in India needed its own autonomous intelligence force, and therefore would have to continue with the byzantine non-communicative, no-command, and not-so-control system that was already in place. We may have a lot of duplication, turf protecting, and unnecessary bureaucracy in the United States, but the Indians made us look like rank amateurs when it comes to chaos and inefficiency.

But I’ve complained about all of this before.
19
So let’s fast-forward through the endless cocktail party and the dull sub-cabinet meeting the next day. Junior and I were invited on a tour of some of the frontier areas, to see what sort of security improvements had been made since my last visit. Eager to get out of the red-taped halls of Mumbai, I accepted.

Adjust for the geography, and the border of India and Bangladesh will remind you a lot of the border between Mexico and the United States. Both are fairly porous and in many areas ruled by gangs that fear each other far more than they fear the legitimate authorities. Smuggling is a huge problem; all manner of goods are taken into Bangladesh from India, right up to livestock.

People searching for jobs come the other way. The Indian Border Security Force has orders to shoot to kill, but this doesn’t stop thousands from trying. Most are just simply poor people searching for better lives; others are Muslim terrorists and spies who for various reasons find a border crossing more expedient here than in Pakistan.

Bangladesh is a multifaceted problem for India, complicated by history, geography, and religion. Poverty doesn’t help, either. It used to be part of Pakistan, but gained its independence (with Indian help) in the early 1970s. It’s heavily Muslim, subject to pretty horrific weather, and extremely poor.

Bangladesh sits like a cyst on India’s right shoulder, surrounded on three sides by Indian states. Junior and I visited a post in Tripura, a smallish state in the east touched on three sides by Bangladesh. We went directly from the airport to the northwestern border, inspecting—I use the word loosely—the double barbed-wire fence that runs along the boundary. A roll of razor wire was strung very deliberately between the two fences.

“Impossible to pass,” claimed the major tasked as our guide. “We often find tigers dead in the middle.”

I wasn’t sure which claim was more fanciful, but I let them pass.

The fence was every bit as interesting as barbed-wire fences get, and I gratefully accepted the invitation for an early lunch. Junior mentioned that he had never seen a tiger, and wouldn’t mind coming across one before eating.

“Sometimes, a mile or two further,” said our guide. “On the other side of the fence. If you are interested, a tour can be arranged.”

I suspect that Junior’s real interest was in avoiding the luncheon, which was sure to be as scintillating as the barbed wire. Whatever. Within minutes, he was outfitted with a bike and two guards for an extended tour. They set out along the packed-dirt road skirting the fence, tinkling their bells every so often as they climbed over the hillside.

Having been cooped up in airplanes and cities for the past few days, Matt appreciated the exercise. The day was a little muggy, and the sun a little strong, but the fresh air and open path felt invigorating. After a mile or so, the border guards decided to show the American visitor what they could do, and began pedaling in earnest.

When Junior first came to us, he was a scrawny little tech specialist, a computer whiz nearly as proficient as Shunt without the peculiar habits. But his real goal was to become a full-fledged shooter. He has been working steadily, with the help of Trace and others, to learn the dark arts of warfare and to get himself into what we call “SEAL shape.” He could still use a bit more meat on his bones, but he’s made considerable progress—a real “blast from the past” that makes me prouder every day.

As soon as he realized that his guides were testing him, he began pumping his legs. Unencumbered by gear, he put his legs into overdrive. He caught them on a flat, then raced up a hill, cresting a good thirty yards ahead, and built on that lead as he headed downhill.

The road reached a dip after about a half mile, then angled to the left (and south) as it started up another hill. Junior was just reaching the low point when something shot out in front of him. It was small and low to the ground—and orange.

He hit the brakes, sure it was a tiger. The rear wheel flew out from under him, and Junior skidded into a semi-tumble against the fence—not particularly pleasant. He managed to slow himself just enough to avoid serious laceration, but got his clothes snagged and tangled.

He hunched down and began freeing himself, meanwhile glancing in the direction of the tiger.

Which wasn’t a tiger, but a girl who had scampered through a nearby hole in the fence. She was crouched at the side of the dirt road, staring at him with eyes that seemed to take up half her face.

“Are you OK?” asked Junior as he unhooked the last prong from his shirt. “I’m sorry—I didn’t see you.”

The girl looked at Junior, screamed, and bolted away. He was shocked. I have that effect on people, but not Junior—he’s a lot easier on the eyes, clearly taking after his mom.

“Wait,” said Junior, rising.

A burst of automatic-weapons fire sent him diving to the ground. His first thought was that his two guides had made the same mistake he had. But when he turned to warn them he saw them approaching on their bikes, their INSAS assault rifles still strapped to their backs.

A fresh volley tore through the fence above him, pinging and ricocheting. Up on the right, about fifty yards into Bangladesh, a small crowd of people emerged from the heavy brush and dashed toward the hole in the barbed wire the little girl had used. Five or six men in shorts and black shirts ran several strides behind them, emptying assault rifles in their direction. With more chops than smarts, Junior jumped up and started yelling to the guards who’d been with him.

“Get them! Get them! Make them stop!” He pointed at the men on the other side of the border. “Get the bastards!”

The Indians pulled up on their bikes, dropping the vehicles beneath them as they pulled up their rifles and took aim—at the refugees who’d crossed over the border.

“What the
fuck
!” yelled Junior. “What are you doing!”

They didn’t pay much attention to him—the men in the black T-shirts started directing their fire at the Indians, who scrambled for better positions. Except for the fence, there was no cover where they were, and so they retreated to a row of trees about twenty yards behind them.

With their pursuers distracted, the people who’d been running from the gunmen slipped under the fence and ran for the woods. The men in the black shirts split up; four followed while two stayed back. Junior was forgotten or missed in the confusion.

Being ignored is not one of Junior’s favorite things. Violating the first law of tourism—never get involved in a foreign gunfight, especially when unarmed—he leapt to his feet and ran after the last man through the fence, tackling him a few strides from the trees. The man collapsed, his AK47 flying. Junior gave him two hard punches to the back of the neck and went for the gun.

Two hard punches to the back of the neck is one more than needed to incapacitate most people—if delivered to the right part of the neck. Apparently Junior missed the mark, for as he grabbed the rifle something grabbed his leg.

Then bit it.

Junior screamed as he fell, scooping up the rifle in the meantime—and getting a mouthful of dirt as he rolled to the ground, which ought to teach him a lesson about vocalizing on the battlefield.

He swung the rifle at his opponent, but despite a good bash to the face, the man’s bicuspids remained firmly attached to the bottom of his calf. Junior reared back and pounded the tip of the barrel into the would-be cannibal’s face. The muzzle strike collapsed the man’s cheekbone and knocked him unconscious, but his bite was so fierce that when Junior pulled his leg free, a couple of teeth remained in his pant leg.

Bloody but uneaten, Junior looked around, trying to get his bearings. The Indian soldiers were shooting at the black shirts, who were prone and returning fire. Otherwise, everyone was in the woods, rushing through the thick foliage.

Cautiously, Junior began making his way toward the tree line. He paused a few feet in, unable to see either the gunmen or the people they were chasing. Finally, he spotted something bright against the dark brown floor of the woods a few yards away. It was the little girl he’d braked to avoid.

She looked up and spotted him, staring for a moment as if he were a space alien—which he might just as well have been, as far as she was concerned. The girl made a face, then started to run back into the trees.

“No, no, it’s OK,” Junior yelled, following. He found it difficult to duck through the branches, but managed to keep her in sight as she doubled back toward the fence.

The rifle fire had stopped. Concentrating on the child, Junior ran through the low brush at the edge of the woods, following up the embankment to the narrow road along the fence. Just as he closed to about five yards, he tripped and fell, sliding on his butt back onto the grass.

The girl screamed. He looked up but couldn’t see her.

“I’m coming!” he shouted, and he began running toward her, moving in the direction of the hole in the fence. He glanced at the AK47, making sure it was ready.

The girl had snagged herself on the barbs of the fence a few feet from the hole. Trying to unhook herself, she’d only become more tangled.

“Relax, relax,” said Junior, trying to calm her. “Ssshhh.”

She cringed as he reached to try undoing her shirt from the hooks holding her. Tears were streaming down her cheeks.

“I’m not going to hurt you, honey,” said Junior. “Shsssshhhh. Be quiet now.”

Junior is in his early twenties, and his experience with children probably amounts to having watched the last installments of
Harry Potter
in a crowded theater. But he did his best to calm the child, talking to her in a quiet voice and trying as gently as possible to get her shirt undone. She was extremely jumpy, which didn’t help matters—as he reached to unsnag her arm, she jerked, embedding one of the barbs in her back.

Her crying turned to a wail.

“All right, all right, relax,” he pleaded. “Relax now. I’m going to help.”

He put down the rifle and hovered over her, trying to work out the hooks without hurting her or getting her stuck worse. The girl’s shrieks gradually lessened to whines, then to a series of soft, unsteady sobs.