The Severance (11 page)

Sergeant Olsen was the only person in the platoon not cut in or even told about the existence of The Severance. In a platoon full of screw-ups and scumbags, Olsen seemed the worst. Jake considered him a snitch who couldn’t be trusted, always looking for dirt that he could tell someone. The platoon had grown used to keeping Olsen in the dark on most things, as any attempt McBride made to get Olsen moved out of the platoon was squashed by the Battalion Sergeant Major, for reasons unknown. Furthermore, he had opted out of the mission that had produced The Severance.

Jake and McBride had waited for months, until the time was right to make their move. The battalion was loading up its containers in preparation for the redeployment. Customs inspectors flew in from Bagram to certify the containers. When the Intel section was having its nonclassified contents inspected, Jake distracted the inspector and the Intel NCO with a series of questions about the legality of shipping home a copy of the Quran. Simultaneously, Sergeant McBride placed the case containing The Severance among the other cases of classified material, and walked away. None of the soldiers standing around paid any attention to McBride or the additional Pelican case. When Jake saw that McBride was clear, he quickly ended his conversation about the sacred Islamic book. The two men had linked up about 200 yards away and watched as the Intel soldiers loaded their container. Once it was closed, the inspector placed on the aluminum seals.

“We good?” McBride asked

“Golden,” Jake replied.

All they had to do now was wait for the container to ship, beat the Intel guys (who would be in no rush) to their container when it got to the U.S.A., and collect The Severance.

Kodiak Platoon was confident that everything had been executed perfectly.

The platoon was mustered outside the FOB’s pinewood air terminal, awaiting the flight to Bagram. Jake sat on a bench in the makeshift pinewood gazebo. With the exception of Sergeant McBride, next to him, the soldiers of the Kodiak Platoon were all sitting on their duffel bags in the gravel, playing spades in groups of four. Jake’s soldiers were voracious card players and he’d long since given up on getting them to spend their free time more productively.

McBride took a long drag on his cigarette, held the smoke in his lungs for a few seconds, and exhaled slowly.

“How’s your head, boss man?” McBride asked.

“Lumpier,” Jake said. “And my neck is stiff.”

“You have a goose neck. It could use the stiffness.”

“Were you always this funny? I don’t remember you being this funny,” Jake said, trying not to laugh.

“You’ll get tickets to my HBO special,” McBride said, as he put his cigarette butt in a soda can. Seconds later, McBride had a new cigarette between his lips. It was a Miami brand, cheap German tobacco forced on deployed soldiers when premium American Marlboros were in short supply, which was often.

“Those will kill you,” Jake said.

“So will staplers,” McBride said.

“Yeah, I didn’t think she’d go all psycho-bitch like your ex-wife,” Jake said, as he rubbed the back of his head.

McBride lit his second cigarette in ten minutes. He took a satisfying drag and asked, “How long do you have left after we get back?”

“Forty-five days. How long do you have?”

“Fifty-two. You think your problem at the hospital has been solved?”

“Jesus, I hope so. What about you? You going to be good to go?” Jake asked, inhaling the pungent odor of the Miami.

“Oh, yeah, I’m golden. Freedom awaits me, Sir. I already got picked up by a security contractor. Six figures and a signing bonus,” McBride said.

Jake knew that McBride didn’t want to be a security contractor. He lived to soldier and there was no substitute for that. Money didn’t motivate McBride, nor the guns nor the action that made him love the Army. He liked being a part of something bigger. The best that Jake could do for McBride was to ensure that he’d never end up broke.

“Well, you know, if you ever need legal representation, you should give me a call,” Jake said. McBride laughed heartily. “Tell you what. If I do end up in some cell in the Congo, I’ll give you a call. Assuming I get a call,” McBride said.

Most of the other guys in the platoon would not be as lucky as Jake and McBride. They didn’t have acceptance letters from the University of Virginia or six-figure mercenary contracts waiting for them. Medals or no medals, the Army had used them up and was going to spit them out. They all knew their fates and, for the most part, were willing to deal with the consequences. And they would at least land on their feet when they got back. Only a few of them actually knew the details about The Severance package, but they were all smart enough not to ask questions. Only Sergeant Olsen was kept out of the circle.

The two men sat quietly in the gazebo, watching the platoon at play. Finally, McBride commented, “Sir, we need our exit from theater to be graceful. We don’t want anything messing up what we have going.”

“I’m not going to mess up anything. Everything is under control,” Jake said.

“If you say so, Sir. Wouldn’t want to see you divorced.”

“Didn’t know you cared, Sergeant.”

“You don’t want to be like me. I’m 28, I look 50, I live in a rat-hole apartment, and see my kid on Tuesdays and alternating weekends,” McBride said.

The thought of losing Amy and having a son who despised him made Jake shudder. He didn’t know if he could survive the loss of his family.

“You know, you’ve never told me what you did to get in trouble. Why you’re leaving the Army, I mean,” McBride said.

“You’re right, I didn’t,” Jake said.

“Well, if you ever want—”

“Drop it,” Jake said.

McBride held up his hand in a dismissive gesture. The captain’s past mistakes were off limits for discussion, but that didn’t stop McBride from asking about them from time to time.

The battalion commander appeared in their midst. LTC Miller had come personally to congratulate the platoon on its awards and upcoming redeployment and apologize that he would not be able to attend the ceremony at Bagram. He thanked them for their service and dedication to the mission. The boys nodded as the commander spoke and sounded off with a rousing “hooah” at the customary points, as they’d been routinely called on to placate him. Hours before, this man who stood before them had decided that none of them were worth keeping around after the deployment. He’d reneged on his deal, but was insensitive enough to come congratulate them in person. Jake wanted to sock him.

All told, the commander stayed six minutes before he left for more pressing matters.

“Colonel Miller is all class, isn’t he?” McBride said quietly. But Jake’s mood did not improve.

“We’re getting valor awards and express tickets home. What more could you ask for?” He couldn’t keep the bitterness from his tone.

“Come on, Sir. If we weren’t the big feature on the Predator Porn feed, we’d still be in the tents rotting. Colonel Miller had nothing to do with this,” McBride said.

“You know, I heard that other battalion commanders are going to try to put together platoons like ours,” Jake said, as he kicked his legs out and stretched.

“This would never work twice,” McBride said, putting his cigarette butt in the soda can and lighting up another.

The other men in the platoon had more choice words about the battalion commander. Phrases like “backstabber” and “rat fuck” were commonly thrown around when referring to the man who had fed them into the meat grinder. Several of the men had sworn vengeance after being so badly betrayed.

“Benakowsky, you ever going to get a book or what?” Sergeant Olsen asked, scowling, as Parsons swept up the four playing cards that had been trampled in the dirt when LTC Miller arrived. Spades play had resumed.

“Sergeant, I went low, remember? I’m not trying to make any books,” Bena said. Benakowsky was forced to balance his love of playing spades with his disdain for playing spades with Sergeant Olsen. Parsons and Mosby had beaten Olsen and Bena soundly.

“I can’t pick a book up to save my ass and you’re not helping, Bena,” Olsen complained.

“Sergeant, why did you bid nine books? You overbid again. You always overbid,” Bena said. Although he was a fine card player, winning with Sergeant Olsen was proving to be impossible.

“Ah, come on, man. We gotta make some books!” Olsen howled.

“Sergeant, you need to bid properly. You always overbid and we always lose points,” Bena said.

“Benakowsky, you know what your problem is? You never take a risk. You never go for it. You play cards like you live your life. That’s why your whore wife walked out on you,” Olsen said.

Bena’s face turned red with embarrassment. It was no secret that Bena’s wife had recently run off with their neighbor and left Bena penniless, but no one in the platoon had dared to joke about it. Sergeant McBride and Captain Roberts had worked hard to help Bena get his life back in order and he’d finally started to feel a little better. Of course, if there was anyone who was going to say something inappropriate, it would be Sergeant Olsen. Sergeant McBride hadn’t heard what Olsen had said, but he was now keenly aware that Bena was upset.

“I’m done, I quit,” Bena said through clenched teeth, throwing his cards down. He reached into his pocket, retrieved two five dollar bills and tossed them to Parsons and Mosby. He then stormed off to a nearby portable toilet.

“I guess that’s one way to prove a point,” Mosby said, looking at Parsons and then down at the two bills.

“That’s not what I wanted to happen,” Parsons said, looking down at the money as well.

“What are you guys talking about?” Olsen asked.

“I don’t want mine,” Mosby said to Parsons, ignoring Olsen.

Nah, I don’t want mine either. I’ll give the money back to him when he calms down a little bit,” Parsons said, pulling out a cigarette.

“Hey fuckheads, what’s with the money?” Olsen asked, frustrated that neither of the lower-ranking soldiers seemed to be paying any attention to him.

“Bena bet us five dollars each that he could beat us in spades, no matter who his partner was. We got to pick the partner, of course. That’s why he asked you to play with him,” Parsons said, cigarette dangling from the side of his mouth as he spoke.

“So you bet against me?” Olsen asked.

“Actually, Sergeant, if you think about it, we bet on you. You are a pretty terrible spades player,” Mosby said.

“Shut your mouth, Private,” Olsen barked, snatching up the two bills and putting them in his pocket. Mosby and Parsons sighed as the money disappeared from their sight.

“Consider this an asshole tax,” Olsen said. Glancing over at the gazebo, he saw Sergeant McBride glaring at him, shaking his head slowly. Just beyond him, Captain Roberts rolled his eyes. Olsen grumbled as he reached back into his pocket to retrieve the money. Balling the bills up in his hand, he threw them down between Mosby and Parsons.

Jake made a mental note to talk to Bena when he could get him alone. He didn’t want to embarrass the younger soldier more at the moment. McBride made a mental note to put his foot squarely up Olsen’s ass, both literally and figuratively. Luckily, an Air Force sergeant came walking out of the terminal to announce that their flight was on final approach and would be on the ground in four minutes.

The soldiers cheered and began to put on their vests and shoulder their bags. Bena joined them. It was clear that he’d been crying. Parsons walked up and gave Bena his money back.

“A bet’s a bet,” Bena said.

“You’re right, you Polack bastard. The bet was you could beat me and Mosby with any partner. The way we figure it, that last game don’t count cause it was more like three versus one,” Parsons said.

Bena nodded and put the money back in his pocket. “Thanks, man.”

“Oh, don’t thank me. When we get to Bagram, Mosby and me are going to find you another partner and we’re going to stomp your ass. Don’t go making any purchases because I’ll be seeing that five spot again soon,” Parsons said, as if a little trash talk would take Bena’s mind off his wife.

Sergeant McBride demanded that everyone physically touch their rifles to ensure they had them and that the platoon’s NCOs check each individual to ensure all gear was in order. Now was not the time to leave something behind. A missing weapon would hold up their trip, medals or no medals.

“This is it, you ready, Sir?” McBride asked.

“I hate flying,” Jake said, grimacing as he caught a glimpse of the C-130 circling around the field.

“Am I going to have to carry you to the plane, Sir?” McBride asked, putting on his backpack.

“No. I hate flying, but I hate this FOB more.”