Warlord: Dervish (16 page)

“How ‘bout you, Dee? You got any kids?”

“No.”

“You want any?”

“I’d like to,” she admitted. “But I can’t.”

“What you mean you
can’t
?”

“We tried. We tried everything: diet, fertility treatments, all sorts of things. And each time, my body wouldn’t—it wouldn’t keep.”

“Each time, huh?”

“Three times.”

Bronson scratched his forehead under his Kevlar. “Day-em, Dee.”

“Three strikes and ones out in your baseball, so I just thought…”

“That’s sad,” Jason was touched. “I’m sorry.”

“It turned out to be a good thing. Like I said, he was a jerk. A baby would have only complicated the picture. Kept him in my life.”

“That’s what I’m sayin, Dee. Too much drama.”

“So, Deirdre,” Jason ventured drolly, “you traded potential domestic bliss for a career as what? A globe trotting photojournalist?”

“Something like that.” She smiled. “I got my start as a stringer for INS, one thing led to another, and, well, here we all are, right?”

“Where ever here may be.”

“Welcome to the suck,” Bronson piped up in the rear.

“You know, Jason, when you got back in the car—” Deirdre realized she was referring to the Humvee incorrectly and amended her words “—when you got back in, the look on your face…”

“I thought I saw something back there. Before.”

“Yes, just another thing that doesn’t sit right with me about this.”

“Ya’ll think we’re okay to talk about this…here?” Bronson gestured with his hand, taking in the interior of the vehicle.

“Probably not,” Deirdre agreed, “but so what? You’re soldiers—” she resumed her original line of thought “—and you have guns. I’m a reporter. I have none of my equipment. No digital recorder, no camera. Nothing.”

“Guess they ain’t lookin’ for first-person accounts.”

“I suppose not.”

Jason remembered something Bronson had said to him, when the other was nothing to him but a disembodied voice in a cold hallway. “Hey Bronson, how’s that rap game going?”

“Let me tell ya, Jay,” Bronson answered, genuinely enthused. “The rap game is simple.” He sounded like he’d given it a good deal of thought. “What are most rap songs about? How big your dick is—‘scuse me, Dee—how much bling you got, how great you are, your bitch. Shit like that.”

“Shit like that, huh?”

“What you know about hip hop, Jay?”

“I know Kid Rock.”

Bronson slapped his armored thigh and laughed. “Let me guess: you know LL Cool Jay, right?

“Wasn’t he on CSI?”

“Nah, that was Ice-T.”

“I heard of some lil’ Wayne guy.”

“You heard a’ lil’ Wayne, huh? What about Rick Ross? You heard of Rick Ross? Nicki Minaj? Drake?”

Jason professed his ignorance.

“Shit, Jay. How long you been out of the states?”

“Three tours.”

“Three tours. Shit!”

“That should be illegal,” opined Deirdre.

“Aight, Jay, so I say, like, French Montana, or Earl Sweatshirt, Brother Lynch Hung, and you say, like, what the fuck, right?”

“Right. What the fuck? And you’re making shit up now, right?”

“Nah. You heard of Snoop right?”

“Snoop Dogg?”

“Snoop dee-oh-double-g-oh.”

“Yeah, sure I heard of him.”

“Thank God. What about you, reporter lady? You a hip hop head?”

“No. No offense.”

“’s right.”

“You know how to use one of them?” Jason changed the subject, referring to the M4 Deirdre had resting barrel up between her legs.

“Vaguely.”

“Hey, Jay, you get a load of the shit they got back here?” Bronson had been rifling through the various equipment and weapons stored in the rear of the Humvee during their conversation.

“Nah, I been too busy driving.”

“They gots a SMAW.”

“What’s a SMAW?”

“This, Dee.” Bronson patted a tubular launcher.

“It’s a shoulder launched multipurpose weapon.”

“A bazooka?”

“Kinda’. They’re good against bunkers.”

“What about against tanks?”

“Oh yeah,” Jason assured her, “They’ll work against tanks.”

Bronson whistled in the back seat. “They got
some
rockets for this bad boy too. HEDP, HEAA—”

“High explosive, dual purpose,” Jason spelled it out for Deirdre, “high explosive, anti-armor.”

“—we got Novel explosive—”

“What’s a Novel explosive?”

“Thermobaric warhead,” clarified Jason. “They create an overpressure—”

“An overpressure?”

“A bad ass shock wave!” Bronson sounded overjoyed.

“They can just…” Jason considered the best word “…
demolish
buildings, caves, tunnels. That kind of shit.”

“Sounds more like thermo-
barbaric
.”

“Thermo-barbaric. I feel that, Dee.”

“It is what it is,” Jason agreed.

“Oh main,” Bronson spoke longingly, “let me get an eye on Osama and his boys sitting in a cave when I gots me one of these…”

“We’re heading into a city, Bronson,” Jason reminded him, “Maybe you can take his ass out at a café.”

“That’s it. I’ll get thermo-barbaric on his haji ass while he’s sipping Chai at Starbucks. You think they got Starbucks here, Jay?”

“I think they got sand and dirt and—” Jason peered through the grime-encrusted windshield “—and garbage. A lot of garbage.”

“Oh my god,” Deirdre gasped, “look at this place.”

What had appeared to be small hills from a distance were in fact mounds upon mounds of trash moldering in the merciless sun and sand. Wisps of smoke rose lazily from several of the piles, dissipating into the atmosphere.

“The city must be just over those hills…” Jason slowed the Humvee. The vehicles in front had already come to a halt. They gathered together again, outside the vehicles. The young mercenary, Drooper, wore belts of 5.56mm ammunition over his shoulders and chest. He looked like he couldn’t wait to use the Squad Automatic Weapon hanging from its sling around his neck. Without drawing attention to himself, Aguilera stepped away from the group.

“We’re close.” Letitia spoke to herself, eyeing the piles of trash suspiciously.

“Hey—” exclaimed the young mercenary “What’s that?”

“No, Drooper.” Fleegle pushed the muzzle of the man’s light machine gun towards the ground, tossing the butt of his cigarette away.

A little boy sat in the dirt amid the trash piles, his knees drawn up to his chin.

“Hey you, kid,” Bingo squatted down. “Come here.”

The child considered them with brooding eyes, distrustful of the armed men and women.

“Tell him don’t run,” Bingo told Ahmed.

“What the hell are you doing?” Standing outside his Stryker, Hess was going ballistic. “Get back in your vehicles.”

Ahmed called out to the boy and the child reluctantly rose, approaching them.

“You heard him.” One of Hess’ gunners yelled, mounted on the Stryker’s grenade launcher.

Jason shared a look with Bronson and Deirdre and they began to put some space between themselves.

The gunner on the truck aimed his words and the muzzle of the Mk-19 at Fleegle. “Get back in the fucking Stryker.
Now
.”

If the merc felt uncomfortable he didn’t evidence it.

“When the shooting starts,” Fleegle tapped another cigarette from his pack, speaking so that Ahmed could hear him. “Tell the boy not to run away.”

Major Hess ranted and raved, flickering unnaturally in the daylight.

“You going to get back in?” the soldier on the Mk demanded.

“Or what?” Fleegle lit his cigarette.

“Behind the Hummer,” Jason warned Deirdre.

“You—” Hess was infuriated “—are contradicting a direct order!”

The major shimmered again.

“Fuck,” Jason breathed.

“I saw it too…” Awe in Deirdre’s voice.

“Last warning, shipmate,” said the man on the grenade launcher.

“Snork.” As Fleegle inhaled his cigarette, the man behind the grenade launcher jerked in the Stryker hatch, arms akimbo. A haze of red misted the air above him.

The crack of Snork’s sniper rifle echoed across the dump.

“Don’t—” Hess’ other man went to fire but collapsed where he was, melting under a barrage of lead from Bingo’s AK and Drooper’s SAW.

Jason looked up from where he crouched with Deirdre. As soon as the first shot sounded he’d raced to her side, shoving her down. Ahmed had done the same with the boy.

“Let me repeat soldier!” Hess continued to stand there, screaming like he had no idea of what had just transpired. “Get-back-in-the-fucking-vehicle.”

“You’re not real are you?” Drooper asked him. “He’s not real, is he?”

Fleegle exhaled out of the side of his mouth, leveling the barrel of his AK. His 7.62mm rounds passed through the Major, ricocheting off the armored vehicle.

“No. He’s not.”

Hess looked down at his shimmering body. “What part of—” the Major started to flicker; one moment he was standing there, the next he wasn’t and then he reappeared. “—don’t you understand?”

With that, he was completely gone.

“The fuck was that?” Bronson asked in disbelief.

“Hologram.” Snork lifted his face from the cheek plate of his rifle.

“Nice shot, Snork.”

“Thanks, Droop.”

“Shit!” Letitia shouted at the garbage. “What is this?”

“Drooper, get in there—” Fleegle referred to Hess’ Stryker “—and see if you can get on the net. Find out what the hell is happening.”

“I’m on it, boss.” Drooper hustled to the vehicle.

“You,” Fleegle indicated Ahmed. “Talk to the kid.”

Ahmed and the boy had risen. The child was scared, but Ahmed held him firmly by the shoulders. When the interpreter asked a question, the boy started tripping over his words trying to get them out.

“What’s he saying, Ahmed?” asked Jason.

Ahmed looked confused.

“Well?” Bingo demanded.

“It doesn’t make any sense.”

“What’s wrong with this child?” Deirdre asked the group. “It looks like he’s seen a ghost.”

“What’s that—” Fleegle stubbed his cigarette out against the side of Hess’ Stryker “—what’s he saying?”

“The other little boys…” Ahmed shook his head, looking doubtfully at the child.

“What other little boys?”

“We’re not alone out here.” Letitia clutched her rifle tightly. “
Are we
?”

“He says the other little boys won’t play with him. They scare him.”

“Who?” asked Jason.

“The other little boys. I tell you, it makes no sense.”

“You see anything, Bingo?” The black merc stood on top of their armored vehicle, surveying the garbage dump.

“Don’t see shit, boss.”

“Hey,” Bronson called out, “where’s Aguilera?”

No one else seemed interested.

Having detached herself from the group, Hahn stood some distance off, studying the dump and the mountains beyond.

“He says they aren’t nice to him…” Ahmed translated.

“What’s he talking about?” Snork looked annoyed.

“I do not know.”

“The other boys,” conjectured Fleegle. “They aren’t nice to him.
Whoever
they are.” He eyed the piles of trash, the smoke and stink rising from them. “
Where-ever
they are.”

“What do we do?” asked Letitia.

“City should be just over that way,” the mercenary leader pointed. “Ask him, Ahmed.”

“He says yes, the city is that way, over the rise.”

“How far?”

“Two kilometers.”

“Okay.” The way Fleegle spoke, it was obvious he had made up his mind.

“Wait a second,” Jason held up a hand. “You’re thinking about going into the city?”

“That’s what we’re going to do.”

Standing beside Hess’ Stryker, Bronson stared up, examining the gaping hole in the torso of the man slumped in the hatch.

“You think—what?” Jason asked Fleegle. “We’re going to run into bin Laden and those guys?”

“That I doubt. bin Laden is dead and gone.”

“You say that like you know it’s true.”

“I do.”

“So you agree the Major was setting us up.”

“‘
The Major
’,” Fleegle studied the glowing tip of his cigarette, “or whatever we want to call that CGI bullshit, had something up his sleeve. And we’re going to go and find out what that was.”