Fuck. Now I have to lie to my friend on top of being mad at him for interrupting us and the perfect moment for me to tell Beaux I was in love with her too.
“Possibly. I’m still waiting to hear from my contact.” I figure a partial truth is better than a complete lie.
Still, the moment he asked, I knew Pauly was on the scent, and he’d follow us in his own transportation if necessary in order to get the story he thinks we have for his own, which means we need to figure out how to leave in the next few hours and do so without him finding out.
Chapter 20
T
he scent of destruction is one you never forget and one you can recognize at the first whiff. It also helped that for the hour-long ride to the village, we could hear the F/A 18 fighter jets overhead followed minutes later by the squelch of the radio and then Sarge relaying to us that a direct hit was made.
Sitting in the back of the armed transport carrier in the dim light, one thigh pressed against Beaux’s and the other against Rosco’s, I could feel that buzz humming through me, that rush that had been missing while I sat for hours on end in the hotel, watching the insects fly in endless circles around the lobby.
As the rocky terrain jostled us around, our combat helmets hit the metal of the transport behind us more times than we cared to count, but that only amplified the anticipation of what was going to greet us when we got our boots on the ground. Being packed like sardines in the Stryker, shoulder to shoulder, made it impossible to turn and meet Beaux’s eyes, to make sure she was okay without speaking aloud and giving away that I might care a little more than I should about my colleague. But I tried to ascertain her comfort level in other ways. With my hands flat on my thighs, I ever so subtly moved my pinkie finger to brush over the edge of where our thighs met. Just enough to let her know I was there, next to her, looking out for her.
But that was all I could do. The words I wanted, no, needed, to say, were lost for now in a lack of opportunity between when Pauly interrupted us and we were forced to slip out of the hotel on the sly, to the crazy cab ride where Beaux was stuck giving turn-by-turn directions to the driver in Dari until we arrived at the meeting location. Surrounded by soldiers geared and amped up on the adrenaline of the big raid stretched out before them, their excitement was palpable. In order to do our job, Beaux and I both needed to be in the right mind-set.
I never got the chance to tell her: either the moment was not perfect enough, my timing was off, or my courage gave way due to other circumstances.
Once we start making our way on foot to the bombing sites, the click of Beaux’s shutter accompanies the background noise of the soldiers’ boots crunching over cobbled streets, and the intermittent conversations between stern voices in English and confused villagers speaking in Dari to the American soldiers. The air feels thick with dust, plus the smell of nitrates and the scent of fire grows with each step we take closer to the epicenter of the bombing campaign.
Although I’m making mental notes as we walk so that I can commit things to memory, I also keep my ear attentive to the conversations Sarge is having a few steps in front of me. In between commanding soldiers to clear houses, check for hostile or retaliatory activity, and to hurry to the main site to help where the SEALs have already moved in and are looking for intel that might be left over, he’s also talking to commanders looking at the scene through drones flying overhead and discussing mission success.
“The situation seems stable,” I can hear him say to his next in command, “but this isn’t a friendly zone. I want you guys clearing houses. I want all military-age males in the village square so that we can make sure we have any threats contained until we clear out.”
My eyes wander as we walk. The many women I see peering through windows, eyes shaded by their burkas, make me wonder what they are thinking right now. Do they look at the uniforms of our armed forces and think savior or enemy? Their eyes express nothing. Barefoot little boys sit on thresholds, eyes wide as saucers with both fear and curiosity as they watch the brigade of desert camo uniforms stomp through their town. A constant keening sound has become white noise to my ears, but I can see women and kids bent over at the waist in certain courtyards, mourning whomever they think they’ve lost. I force myself to put up my fourth wall, shut my own emotion off so that I can report objectively and not be affected by the sights and sounds of devastation around me as best as I can. It’s not as easy as it looks, but I know Beaux is documenting everything: the emotional destruction in candid shots now, and then the physical destruction for Worldwide when we reach the epicenter.
I glance over at her as we walk, taking in her hair braided down her back beneath the helmet, camera bag slung over her shoulder and Kevlar vest, and the black Canon an extension of her hand as she snaps the shutter over and over, changing the angle to get a new shot every few clicks. She must feel the heat of my stare because she lowers the camera momentarily, her vibrant green eyes meet mine, and a soft smile forms on her lips.
The thought flickers in my mind again how she is this little piece of Heaven in this land full of Hell.
“Remember the rules,” I tell her, which earns me an even bigger smile.
“Yes, Mr. I’m-in-control,” she teases, adding a little bit of lightheartedness to this oppressive atmosphere. “I won’t leave your side. I’ll listen to you. I won’t leave your side, and I won’t leave your side. Satisfied?” She shrugs, her smile turning into a lopsided smirk as she raises the camera again.
“Smart-ass,” I murmur, although I feel a tad bit better hearing that she knows how important it is not to wander off.