The Valley (29 page)

T
he Christmas lights were switched on in the Taj Mahal. It felt like nighttime as he pulled the door shut behind him.

At the far end of the container, under the poster of the villa girl, was a raised wooden riser, giving the space a split-level effect. Brydon sat leaning against the rear wall, facing the doorway, elbows crooked over his knees, eyes on an infinite point someplace ahead of him. His gear and weapons sat leaning against the side wall near him.

He had put a CD on the tinny little player. Something Black recognized as disco. A breathy, sprite-voiced woman sang over bass and electric piano.

Black stepped forward, bringing a chair from the poker table. He set it just short of the edge of the riser so that when he sat, he and Brydon were speaking roughly face-to-face.

“Thank you,” he told Brydon.

Brydon's eyes didn't leave the point before him.

“I didn't throw the grenade,” he mumbled.

“Yeah, but I owe you and Bosch for not saying anything. And Shannon.”

Brydon's eyes showed surprise at hearing Shannon's name.

“Yeah,” Black said. “I know.”

He looked at Brydon's weapons.

“Merrick didn't know about the firing pin and the slide, did he?” he asked. “That was just Caine.”

Brydon said nothing.

“Caine brought them to you at the O.P.”

Brydon just eyed Black.

“What did he offer you for them?” he asked Brydon. “What did he ask you to do?”

“Wasn't like that,” Brydon murmured, looking at the riser.

“Okay,” Black replied.

He meant it. He believed Brydon.

“Anyway,” Black said. “I think those are from my weapons.”

Brydon screwed up his brow at Black as the song on the CD cycled over. A mash of rising keyboard tones that made Black think of someone stretching taffy. Another jumping disco tune, with the same airy woman.

“I have to ask you something,” Black said to Brydon.

“Okay.”

“It's important, but it's the last question I need to ask.”

“Okay.”

“What did you mean when you told Corelli that Xanadu is what comes before the end of the world?”

Brydon closed his eyes and shook his hanging head.

“You go there, it'll just take you too, sir.”

A weight squeezed on Black's chest and filled his throat. He felt his hand reach out involuntarily, then drop. He looked at the miserable soldier without words.

“What
is
it?” he finally whispered. “Why won't you let anyone help you?”

Brydon spoke softly to the floor.

“None comin' for me,” he said flatly.

Black shook his head, uncomprehending.

“What do you mean?” he asked. “No one's getting left behind.”

It tasted like a slogan in his mouth. Brydon let out a heaving sigh. He dug in his pocket and brought out something small and white and rectangular. He cupped it in his hands.

The disco woman sang like a fairy giving a full-body massage.

“I wanna ask a question now, sir.”

“What?”

Brydon stared at the rectangle, cradling it.

“What were you gonna do with your life?” he said. “Before all this?”

It was the first time anyone had asked him that since his smartass friend, early in their training together.

“I was in seminary.”

“What's that?”

“I was going to be a priest.”

Brydon let out a single hard laugh, without merriment. It was the closest Black had come to seeing him smile.

“Figures,” Brydon said, shaking his head.

He flicked his wrist and sent the white object spinning toward Black. It landed on the edge of the riser. Black retrieved it.

It was a military ID card with a picture of a soldier Black didn't recognize. The name he did recognize.

JASON TRAYNOR
U.S. ARMY

Black turned it over in his hands uncomprehendingly. When he looked up, Brydon was looking at the floor again.

“It's all fucking coming apart,” he said quietly.

Black shook his head, confused.

“How did you use this?” he asked. “How'd you go on leave?”

Brydon snorted.

“When was the last time somebody checked the picture against your face, sir?”

Now that he thought about it, no one had ever remotely checked his face against his ID card since the day he presented it as he drove through the main gate of Fort Benning to park his car and get on a plane to Afghanistan with his unit. Once you're in theater, everyone just assumes you are who the name tape on your uniform says you are. Why the hell would someone fake his identity to come to
this
place?

He examined the picture on the card. The kid looked like the favorite son of a small town.

“I can't be that guy, sir,” Brydon whispered.

“You're not,” Black said. “You're not Jason Traynor.”

“No, not
that
guy,” Brydon replied dismissively.

“Who?”

“The Pearl Harbor guy.”

“What?”

Black watched a tear fall from Brydon's hidden face and strike the riser between his feet.

“
Fuck
Sergeant Caine!” the Wizard spat bitterly. “
Fuck
him for making me do it. Tell him I said, Fuck You,
Sar'nt
.”

A sob escaped him. He cupped his forehead in a palm and blew out a long breath.

“Who
are
you?” Black pleaded.

“Told you, sir,” Brydon sighed, sounding weary. “I'm a ghost.”

“Where's your unit?”

Brydon looked up at him with glistening eyes. When he spoke his voice was clear.

“I
am
my unit.”

Black lunged, shouting Brydon's name, but the pistol was too close and Brydon was too fast to it. Black recoiled away at the blast, falling backward off the riser and knocking over his chair.

The floor swayed beneath him as he crashed through the assembled lawn chairs, nearly sending the CD player and the fairy girl flying, arms out before him wildly to find the tilting doorway.

Now that you're near

In Xanadu

Now that I'm here

H
e burst from the container and staggered into sunlight, looking left and right frantically. There was a near passageway to the left.

He pounded through, banging on doors. He didn't know this part of the outpost, which looked to be devoted mostly to storage. It was only from the floor, after tripping over a crate, that he heard the muffled sound of music ahead.

He picked himself up, knee throbbing, and pounded the few steps to the door. He crashed through.

Cheap faux-Persian tapestries of the sort sold on every American FOB covered the walls. The floor was carpeted with a mixture of Army blankets and furniture moving pads. There was room for three cots, each with an open sleeping bag draped across it, and a couple of large heaps of blankets and other padding fashioned amorphously into something between a recliner and a beanbag chair.

The only light came from an old-fashioned Lava Lamp in the corner. An Indian sitar played inside a boom box someplace. A haze of pungent smoke filled the room.

Soldiers in shorts and T-shirts sprawled on two of the three cots and lay draped across both of the amorphous heaps. One of them was Shannon.

He'd removed his gear, which was stacked in a corner with his weapons and boots, and lay barefoot in camouflage pants and T-shirt. A tall contraption Black recognized as a water pipe sat on the padded floor next to him, the end of its hose lying close to his hand.

He looked up at Black foggy-eyed.

“I think,” he mumbled, as the other soldiers hazily registered Black's presence, “that you're gonna wanna get out of here, sir.”

Black pushed backward through the door, emerging dazed into the dim hallway.

C.P.

He stumbled off further down the hallway and turned corners without direction until he reached an intersection he recognized. He pounded off toward the command center.

Three soldiers slugged down the hallway in the other direction. Two of them were supporting the third, who was hopping on one leg and grimacing in pain. There was a sizable bloodstain on the lower leg of his trousers.

He burst through the CP door and stood panting in the sudden silence.

It was just as he'd left it. The quiet hum of the fan and the occasional crackle of static. The smart-alecky kid from before was at the desk again. He noted Black's heaving, sweaty presence with a raised eyebrow and smirk from behind his paperback.

“Perfect timing, there, sir,” he said dryly, before Black could speak. “An officer right on time, whattaya know.”

“What?” stammered Black.

The kid lowered one hand from the book and palmed from the desktop a folded piece of paper, which he held aloft between his index and middle finger.

“For you, sir,” he said in a bored voice. “From Sergeant Merrick.”

Black stepped forward, confused and huffing, and with a trembling hand retrieved the paper.

“When did you get this?” he demanded breathlessly.

“Just a couple minutes ago.”

It took Black's upturned mind a moment to process this. Merrick was back. This was good. Black looked at the folded slip, quivering in his hand. It was sealed with a strip of tape.

“Been doin' some P.T., there, sir?” the soldier smirked.

Black turned hurriedly to the door. He stopped and spun back around, grabbing the kid's walkie-talkie off the desktop, over his confused protests.

He rang up the aid station, identifying himself as Vega X-Ray.

“You need a medic at the Taj Mahal,” he said flatly into the radio.

He sent the radio bouncing and skittering across the desk between its owner's furtive attempts to capture it, and pushed through the door, tearing open the paper.

LT. B—

MEET ME ROOF, GUARD SHACK

TIME NOW

SGT. M

He pocketed it and jogged away, cutting left and right through the complex. He passed no one between the CP and Oswalt's stairwell, which he pounded up two at a time. He reached the landing with Oswalt's hootch, whose curtain was open just enough to reveal Oswalt himself reclining inside, playing one of his video games.

He stomped past and started up the final stretch of steps.

“Oh, I wouldn't go there, sir,” Oswalt called.

Black paused on the stair.

“What?” he puffed over his shoulder.

“I was sayin' I wouldn't go up to the roof right now, sir.”

Black took two steps back down to the landing.

“Why not?” he demanded, chest heaving.

Oswalt didn't take his eyes from the game. Rocket volleys decimated the enemy.

“Oh, there's another sniper out this morning, sir,” he said, thumbs working madly. “It ain't safe right now.”

“A sniper?”

“Yes, sir. Up on the hill. Already shot Garza in the leg.”

The soldier being carried up the hall as Black had left Shannon.

“He's been goin' for anyone who sets foot up there, sir.”

Black whirled to face the final length of stairwell, finding his rifle unslung and in his hands. He stepped backward and nearly fell down the flight below. He felt dizzy.

He put a hand out to the wall and slowly backed down the stairs, keeping his rifle trained upward as he did so. Halfway down he realized he was probably pointing it the wrong way.

He turned and faced the way he was traveling. At the bottom of the stairwell he peered around the corner, still breathing heavily, before stepping down into the corridor and jogging away into the dark.

He pushed through the broken closet door and out to the narrow strip of backyard, breaking to his right and running in a crouch. He reached the passageway nearest Lieutenant Pistone's hootch and covered its length quickly, weapon up, heart pounding.

He saw no one all the way back to his room. He let himself in and locked the door behind him, breathing heavily.

Standing in the pitch-dark, his breath slowed. He set his flashlight on an end table and switched it on, pointing it at the wall for usable light. He felt the calmness descending on him again.

He stripped off his gear and changed all his clothing quickly, taking a fresh uniform and relacing his boots. He dug in his ruck and came up with a very small pack with a water bladder in it. There were a few water bottles on a shelf, which he used to fill the drinking bladder, and an M.R.E. case in the corner. He tore one open and crammed its pieces into the tiny pocket on the pack.

When he was done he took the flashlight and retrieved his map from the cargo pocket of his other trousers. He sat on the bunk with his back against the wall. With one hand he set his rifle across his knees, pointing at the door, and disengaged the safety. With the other he arrayed the map and flashlight so he could study it in the dark.

When he was done he folded the map and stuffed it in a cargo pocket. He switched off the flashlight. Then he waited, looking at the door, both hands on his rifle now.

He realized that he had not slept in forty-eight hours. The calm had come over him fully now, but he did not grow drowsy.

Five hours in, he switched on the flashlight and shone it on the stacks of items from Pistone's footlocker, still arrayed next to him on the bed where he'd left them. He pulled the yearbook to him and set the light so the book was illuminated. With one eye on the door he started turning pages.

It was a bleak harvest. The inside cover had two signatures, both of which were just that—signatures, and nothing else.

There were a couple more here and there as he flipped through, with one or two perfunctory “Have a great summer!” and “Good luck in college!” pity notes. Eventually he passed the senior photo of Pistone himself, which looked much like the Pistone in the picture on the side table except with larger eyeglasses and a stark comb-over of a haircut.

There was not a single note that looked to be from an actual friend, and none more than four or five words long, until he got to the inside back cover. It was scribbled in odd writing, as though a rightie had done it with his left hand, and it was a healthy length indeed.

Hey Pissed-on you faggot.

Yeah you left your yearbook lying in the band room, idiot. Thought you were gonna get some cool notes? Hey I got one for you right here.

You know who's writing this so I'm not even going to sign it so you can just narc on me again like a pussy. But you know who this is.

I am here to tell you that I know it was you and you may think you got away with it but you aren't going to get away from me. You may think you are graduating and I am stuck here all summer and you'll be safe. But I know where you work and I'm going to be there every day after I leave this shithole. When you leave work I am going to be there. And I am going to kick your twisted little freak ass every night for the whole summer. So get ready asshole.

GOOD LUCK IN COLLEGE!

Black could not imagine a stranger memento to haul all the way to Afghanistan. He closed the yearbook and set it down on top of Pistone's journal, switching out the light and resuming his watch.

Several hours later the amber time on his wrist told him it was fully dark outside. He rose from the bed and switched on his flashlight. He shouldered the small pack and grabbed a camouflage patrol cap, leaving his body armor, helmet, and gear stacked against the wall.

He put his rifle back on SAFE and set it down on the bunk. From his trousers he drew his little leatherbound notebook and scratched a mark in it, shoving it back in his pocket when he had done so. He took a water bottle from the shelf and drank half of it in a long draught, switching off his flashlight when he was done and setting it on the invisible bunk next to his invisible rifle and gear.

He turned to the door, seeing only the dim cracks of light around its frame. He stepped forward and removed the padlock from the hasp, unholstering his pistol as he did so. He closed his eyes and blew out a long breath.

“Coming home,” he murmured.

I'll see you soon.

He opened the door and stepped out into the corridor.

—

The soldier at the gate stared off into the young night, watching the sea of fog creep up the slopes below his feet. His walkie-talkie crackled.

“Gate, this is Minor.”

Specialist Minor, the guard knew, was inside cleaning weapons in the grand house's former foyer. He picked up the walkie.

“Minor, Gate.”

“Hey, man, be advised, that creepy L.T. is coming your way and he's walking through here with his nine-mil out like he's trippin' or somethin'.”

“Roger.”

“Just, like, so he doesn't sneak up on you or nothing.”

“Roger.”

The soldier turned and looked back into the courtyard, rifle in his hands. Within moments, the lieutenant emerged and began crossing the courtyard. His pistol was out, just as Minor had said, though he carried it down at his side. When he saw the soldier he holstered it.

He was an odd picture as he approached. No body armor or rifle, just a small pack and a patrol cap.

“Evenin', sir,” the soldier said.

The lieutenant just nodded calmly as he passed and said not a word, breezing through the gate as though he were strolling out onto a city street on an ordinary day.

“Uh, sir, you can't . . .” said the soldier and trailed off.

The lieutenant headed downslope. The soldier called after him.

“Um, sir, going to Darreh Sin would be an extremely bad idea.”

“Probably,” called the lieutenant as he kept going.

The soldier keyed his radio to call the command post as he watched the strange young officer disappear into the fog.

—

He walked straight downhill until the mist surrounded him and he was sure he couldn't be seen from the gate anymore. Then he cut right and started climbing, using his hands to feel his way through the trees and his impeccable memory for terrain to guide him to it.

See you at the end of the world.

His feet found the trail, and he picked up a slow, steady run uphill.