
C H A P T E R T H I R T E E N
VANGUARD JOINT OPERATIONS BASE, PAKISTAN
CIRCLES
12 MARCH, 1984 10:03
CHAPTERS
John lay curled in a twist of coarse fabric. His head throbbed where a metal bar had pushed up through his mattress. The bedding had molded to the shape of his body after two nights; it was his only comfort–an open grave he sunk into.
Since the day he was shot, he remained here–huddled in his legs.
The sun’s shadows swung over muted, ivory-yellow walls and a sterile floor that had once encased an infirmary. Now it was a cell–a place to be forgotten.
John’s gaze dropped from the dull, sunlit window, continuing to pick at his scab-covered arm. He’d been digging at his skin feverishly, leaving bumpy lines that ran the length of his forearm like worms escaping rainfall.
It happened so much faster now–the healing.
In the days he spent here–locked in his sickly white room, in his sickly white gown, atop his sickly white sheets, he learned how quickly he recovered from the self-inflicted wounds. He was changing–becoming worse.
Since the raid on his home, and the attempt on his life, everything felt different. Changed.
Gashed knees and a few bones he broke as a child healed within hours to a couple of days. Faint memories of the pain were nothing compared to how it felt now. It was agony–nauseating.
When he’d been shot, his chest torn apart by the sniper’s bullet, the healing began far more rapidly and he was filled with a gut-wrenching sickness. It felt like a pack of surgeon’s hands were sewing him up from the inside out. He remembered the rows of spinning faces aghast with awe as his flesh sealed over the cavity in his chest followed by a torrent of black bile heaved up from his stomach–his lungs too. It had happened just as it did when the Soviets tried to kill him–when it started.
The night he was meant to die.
Pallid faces of the dead stirred behind his eyes. They watched him in his dreams, gathering in the corners of the room. Whispered mutterings of warning fell as soft as breath from their gaping mouths. And behind them, the Phantom stood, its blackened toothy head bent to its shoulder.
Every night it drew closer, taking just another step through the wall of white corpses. The Phantom’s hand reached forward once more, outstretched–calling to him.
So, John fought to stay awake, digging his nails into his skin regardless of how much it churned his stomach. But sleep would eventually take him–and the inky figure would return.
Black fingers of tooth and bone splayed towards him–always so close, always just beyond his reach.
John peeled another thin layer of skin from his forearm. Almost immediately, gray scabs crawled out from an ember glow beneath the wound. They scurried over the fresh cut like hungry maggots, hardening and flaking away to pristine, scarless flesh.
During his first night in the room, he heard the doctor’s hushed words through a crack in the door. John was dangerous, contagious. Whatever illness burned within him might spread–so they feared.
But what kind of sickness forbids death?
Abruptly, muffled voices spurred from behind the door. John tilted his head over his shoulder, straining to listen. Snapping words bounced between the familiar rumble of the guards and another voice.
The door handle latched down with a creak, the door opening an inch.
“Ma’am,” one of the guard’s voices echoed. An edge of stress hung in his tone. “It’s unsafe. Can’t enter without a mask and coverall–you’re at risk of contamination.”
“Read Dr. Gambin’s report–he’s clean,” a woman said.
Her voice–John’s head stirred.
“Sorry, lock me in if you have to. Dr. Gambin’ll confirm it though.”
“No ma’am, I’d feel better if you gave us a moment to redress–you need someone in there with you,” the guard replied. A pause lingered between them. He sighed. “Take a mask at least.”
“Sure–I’ll only be a moment, but I need to speak with him alone–sorry.” She appeared around the entrance, softly shutting the door on the last of the guard’s pleas.
Nuria–!
John sprung to the edge of the bed, blinking the moisture from his eyes. He nearly forgot the handcuffs that latched his arm to the bed, which rattled from his sudden movement.
It looked like she flinched. A pang thumped in John’s chest. It’s me, it’s still me!
Her slender form stood pointed–proper. Dressed delicately in high-waisted trousers and a crisp white blouse, she seemed removed from him.
John squinted and the back of his head tingled. Nuria’s face shifted before him, becoming another. Red hair turned chestnut brown, parting to bare a narrow face, and eyes that hinted caution rather than the familiar, yet unnerving, cunning.
Nuria?
Oh… His heart sank as his eyes focused.
It wasn’t her. It was that woman from the interrogation. She had accused him of his father’s murder–spouted lies in his face before a mob of hateful men. John’s tongue tasted bitter with the memory. He turned away, returning to his burial beneath his sheets. No more, he thought. He wouldn’t stand for any more of it.
“John,” the woman said. The name fell from her lips with a surprising softness.
Hearing his name felt strange, somehow hollow to him. It made his molars clench together.
“My name is Cecilia Whitaker. I have…a few questions for you.”
What more could she want from me? They’ve already taken everything, he thought hatefully. There was nothing he knew about the Soviet raid–why or who killed his father. He wished he did–then maybe they would all believe him.
He wasn’t a murderer.
But he had killed. His mouth twitched with the memory of Russian soldiers left to wet the earth with their blood. That wasn’t murder, he reminded himself. They were animals–prowling beasts, and so John killed them.
The woman sighed as she took a step closer.
“I wanted to talk to you about Dr. Nikolaev–excuse me, Rolan. I have some questions.”
John peered back at her. She held a manilla folder to her chest in one hand and the strap of a dangling mask in the other. She’s not worried about getting sick?
“You say he was your father, correct?” she asked, taking another step closer. Her eyes danced over the room, landing on a bucket and sponge that had been left for John to wash himself, and beside it a round, metal pan to use as a toilet.
John’s face reddened, ducking to hide it from her. This is torture.
The woman cleared her throat. “You’re the only one who might have known more about him–about these–”
Papers shuffled. The air became tense as John sensed something handed to him. Chewing his cheek, he slowly relented, turning back to her. Held out warily between the tips of her fingers were two photographs.
John shifted upright and snatched the photos, avoiding her gaze. Her hand recoiled, her slender fingers forming into a surprised fist. She quickly hid the fist behind her back, feigning composure. She’s afraid.
You see a monster–the same that killed my father. John’s nose and lip began to twitch.
He flicked his attention to the photographs held in his thumb and forefinger. One depicted a black crystal–some hunk of volcanic rock; the other was a scene of Pashtun villagers mining the earth. One man dressed in traditional perahan tunban garb and a pakol hat hefted a large formation of the same volcanic crystal. Blade-like shards unfurled from the clump in the man’s gloved hands.
John raised an eyebrow at the woman.
“Have you ever seen these before?” she asked. She toyed with a curl of her hair as she spoke. “This type of crystal–I–we’re calling it black glass. It’s nothing like anything you may have seen–I mean, you would know if you’d encountered it.”
John took a closer look at the photographs, but nothing came to mind. What do these have to do with the death of my father?
His breath caught in his throat. Under his thumb, in the corner of the first photograph was a piece of hurriedly scrawled handwriting.
‘Hide it’, it read.
“This is his writing,” John spoke, his voice hoarse. His eyes were hot as he traced his thumb over the script, as though he was touching a piece of his father’s soul.
“Yes,” the woman said. “These were found in his room–with him. Did he ever mention these to you, what they were digging for?”
John shook his head. His father never talked about his past. He picked some details up from the other villagers, but never enough to piece together a clear picture. All he knew was the man he grew up with.
“I don’t know,” John said. He needed water, something to chase down the pain in his throat. “Didn’t talk about himself much–but…I…think I know where this–” He lifted the photo of the Pashtuns.
Light sparkled in the woman’s eye.
“These hills…they’re near my home–this here–” he pointed to the mountains creeping into the background of the dig-site. “This looks like the range that surrounds the village, Andam-Sarbani. The digging might be a few miles from home.”
“Do you recognize anyone in the picture?”
“Maybe, I…I don’t know–”
“Was anyone ever sick? Extensively? Uhm–” Cecilia’s hands were animated as she searched for her next words. She shifted onto either foot, pacing in place. “Longer than someone should have been–years?”
Behind the tidy appearance, she was an awkward girl, jittering between scattered words. She certainly wasn’t Nuria–just some skittish girl–as lost as he was.
“When I was little, there were some. Elders–always sick. He–Rolan looked after them.” John stared at his father’s handwriting. “Don’t remember much, but I’d go with him–helped with duties–kept ‘em comfortable. That way they could rest.”
“How long were you there–living in the village?” she asked. She became scrutinous.
“Always,” John said. “Since I was born.”
The woman stepped back into thought. She moved gradually about and then spun to face him. “How old are you?” she asked. Her brow slanted inquisitively.
“Twenty-two,” said John. He shifted uncomfortably on the bed, flicking his gaze to meet hers.
“Viktor had no children,” Cecilia said indirectly, her thumb pushing on her chin. She smiled, looking away. “Funny. We’re the same age.”
A knock came at the door then. Entering quietly was a broad shouldered man in a linen suit who gently closed the door behind him. He made a slight smile with thin lips as he tucked a length of blonde hair behind his ear.
“Mr. Lochte,” Cecilia said, sounding a bit surprised. She glanced at the protective mask she held, lifting it with a shrug. She and John held their breath beneath the man’s unreadable gaze.
“I apologize for the interruption,” Lochte said. John recognized him from the interrogation too. Bright lights had crisped over his triangular silhouette of rolled-up sleeves and pleated pants. He grimaced at the memory. Lochte gestured to Cecilia’s mask with a finger out from his pocket. “I read the report. Besides, I seem to have misplaced mine.”
“Of course!” the woman nodded, somewhat relaxing. “I mean–I just had some questions–well, more now. Could we speak later? If you have time, that is.”
“Later,” Lochte smiled. His neck was thick and he had laugh lines that threw shadows back under his cheekbones, making him appear gaunter than he was.
Cecilia gave a curt nod and smiled, hurriedly slipping out of the room. John was left with the photographs in his lap. The girl must have forgotten about them, which he was glad for. He could hold onto them a little longer.
The sunlight in the room dimmed with a passing cloud. Lochte stood quietly for a time, his pensive stare flaying away John’s bristling composure. He had pale eyes, the kind that reflected the color of one’s hidden ugliness. John found himself recoiling from him just like the girl had moments before she fled. He retreated to the photographs as a way of escaping him.
“I’d like to introduce myself, officially,” Lochte said. He relinquished the shine from his crushing gaze, dipping his chin down at the crude state of the room. John’s lips tightened as the man shifted his wing-tipped shoes away from the bed-pan beside the bed. “Though this setting is a poor improvement from our first meeting. We’ll change that soon.
“I am Pascal Lochte, head of Javelin’s special operations,” the man said. His shoulders rounded back and he bent forward at the hip–his face coming within inches of John. “It was my team that retrieved you.”
John’s nostrils flared as he leaned away from Lochte’s approach. So, it was him, the puppeteer who’d been playing with John’s life. He stole my chance for revenge–to save Nuria–even father–
“You’ve lost much, I know, but understand that if it were not for Captain Davy’s actions–under my orders–what remained of your life would be far more excruciating. Russians do not make for good hosts of people like you and me.”
John blinked, suspicion overtaking him. His chest filled with heat, his thoughts turning to what could have been. I would’ve survived–escaped the Russians, John’s thoughts stoked the heat between his ribs. He damned us–killed her! John snapped a dark glare up at Lochte beneath his furrowed brow.
“Swallow your hate,” Lochte said, unamused. The man straightened up, casting his disapproval down on him. “Dr. Nikolaev was a tragic loss–not just to you. The Soviets had their way with the village before we could overtake them. That is the reality.
“We saved you, though. A life secured not by Washington bureaucrats, but by volunteers–free patriots–my men, of whom risked their lives to protect yours twice.” Lochte sucked his cheeks in against his teeth, his eyes shutting for a moment. “Show some gratitude. There are many buyers searching for you and it would not bring anyone to tears to see a bump in their pay and a sudden drop in absurdity among our ranks.”
John flinched, chewing on the bitter words between his teeth and tongue. Embarrassment replaced the burning in his chest. He still didn’t understand what this meant–why he was here and not his father–why his own life was somehow important in all this. What buyers?
An image flashed in his head, that of the vile, pale stranger from days before. The stranger curled towards him like a slender, black finger sprouted from the earth, his white face the crooked nail at its end seeking to dig into John’s flesh. He greeted John by name–He knew my name.
“And so,” Mr. Lochte continued. “To protect you, you will be embedded–hidden, within my task force under Captain Davy’s observation.
“Dr. Nikolaev left us a trove of questions, but he also left you. With your cooperation, we will uncover what was lost before the Soviets–and since solitude has done little to open your mind, it is my opinion that some fresh air would be the appropriate prescription to unearthing what we might have lost.”
John’s head swam. From the sound of it, he’d just been given another chance–to live, to seek answers. His head felt light, his shadow stretching higher along the wall.
Something listened–feeling what he felt–doubly. Hunger.
Lochte removed a hand from his pocket, lifting his wrist out from his sleeve to reveal a gold and steel plated watch. He pursed his lips and studied its glinting surface, then turned towards the door. With two knocks of his knuckle, the door opened to an abnormally large man. He was immense, a bulking figure of rounded muscle and wide shoulders. He wore dusty tan fatigues, which by their size could have doubled as bedding for John’s small bed. As he ducked into the room, a haze of light from the window bounced from the dome of his, shaved, sun-tanned scalp.
Lochte gestured to John, leaving John’s eyes wide as the giant pulled his fist out from behind his back. John half expected him to brandish a weapon clutched in his brutish fingers to beat him with–as a sick, final warning to obey. Instead, the giant produced a neatly folded pair of army fatigues, alike to his own–as well as a set of worn, black boots. They were held out to John.
John’s eyes darted between the uniform, the giant, and Lochte, his gut twisting with apprehension. He found himself reaching for the fatigues, deciding that a change of clothes was too good an offer to pass on. Still, he watched the glint in the giant’s eye as he took the uniform in hand.
“If it hasn’t become clear to you yet, you are not contagious,” said Lochte. “Whatever is afflicting you is dormant, but our resident doctor will confirm that in time–with your cooperation,” He flicked his wrist again to glance at the wristwatch.
This time he snapped his finger and a guard emerged into the room. On swift feet, the guard passed between Lochte and the giant and removed John’s restraints before quickly vanishing again.
This is happening.
“This is German, your new squadmate,” added Lochte, nodding to the giant. “He’ll be overseeing your transition into the unit.”
The soldier folded his arms, snorting with his brick of a nose. He had a square jaw too, grizzled with the blue hue of a morning beard, and a thickly wrinkled brow that frowned down at John. The man would have fit right in with Moisey’s deserters.
“Hm,” was all the soldier said. The small acknowledgement grated like gravel in his mouth. John scoffed. The brute was only here to keep him from running–or worse. A handgun strapped in a leather holster to the man’s thigh confirmed as much.
“One more thing,” said Lochte, who began to slip out through the doorway. “I’d like for us to be friends.” His fingers drummed on the doors surface, a shameless smile forming beneath his high cheekbones. “Friendship requires trust–a concept I’m sure you’re familiar with. Remember this, John–I reward trust.
“Until the next–” Lochte disappeared behind the door.
John was now alone, left to his new warden. He would have felt entirely drained from the series of conversations he’d just been dragged through if not for the fact that he was now a free man–more or less. His fingers buzzed with anticipation.
For a moment, he waited for his squadmate to give him some privacy to change from his sweat-stained gown. The giant did not relent–even against John’s pressed look of annoyance. John gave one more attempt and cleared his throat.
“Change,” the soldier said. “Then we go.” He had a familiar accent that chilled John’s spine. He obeyed–out of a sudden, cautious instinct. He searched his memory for whatever it was about the giant’s voice that was setting his hairs on end.
Grumbling, John hoisted the trousers up beneath his gown–maintaining some level of dignity. A lip-curling must rose with the removal of his gown. Regretfully, he’d skipped a morning wash, now cursing himself for choosing to curl up beneath his sheets in self-pity instead.
The new shirt seemed to fit decently enough. It tucked nicely into his trousers too, a style he mimicked from his squadmate. The boots were a tad tight, but would do well enough to replace his old ones.
He wondered what had been done with his old clothes. Probably burned or thrown away. The thought filled him with anxiety, though he wasn’t sure why. I think I lost something, he thought. He pushed the worry away. There would be time to remember, and to think on everything he’d learned today.
With a final snap of his boot laces, John stood to face German who had remained ever vigilant. The giant’s beady eyes tracked his every move, which began to irk John. It bothered him even more that the man never seemed to blink either.
“Follow,” said German. His hand wrapped over the door handle, swinging it open to a burst of fluorescent light. John grit his teeth, holding a hand over his eyes as he stepped forward. His feet tipped hesitantly in the doorway.
Eyes adjusted, John glanced into the hallway nervously, his head low like a beaten dog. Fear of another ambush prickled in his mind–handcuffs, a bag thrown over his head, and more mistreating guards to cart him off to another foreign prison.
But the halls were empty, only for a few rooms which were closed off and quiet. Still–
A wide hand prodded John’s shoulder, urging him forward. “Go on, there is no boogeyman waiting on you,” German huffed.
John’s heart lurched to his throat as he found himself tumbling forward. His ankles dragged sluggishly, moving slower than his mind, and unavoidably caught on one another. His hands swung out, slapping against the opposing wall to keep his head from cracking against the painted brick. Blood pounded in his ears.
“You are just little boy!” German shot. An arm hooked under John’s, lifting him to his feet. “If walking out of here–you cannot do? Tch! I will leave you to your bedpan–invalid!” His accent boiled out to reveal itself in the man’s frustration. Russian. Now John knew what had set him on edge before–the giant was a Russian.
A Russian–with the Americans?
The thought passed as the rush in his chest subsided, leaving him to his trembling limbs. He had become weak, he realized, biting his cheek. Days spent coddled in his sheets with an abysmal lack of sleep had sapped him of all energy and spirit.
Nuria would be disappointed.
John steadied himself, preparing for another jab onward form the Russian–but none came. John turned to find a peculiar look of pity on the man’s face, which quickly evaporated into the pinched wrinkle of his brow. German motioned him to move forward with a flick of his chin.
Eyeing his footing, John stepped forward. Blood hummed back into his moving joints, pushing out the shakes in his legs. Soon he was pushing through the exit, and wading into a wash of dry, open air. Life breathed into his soul with the smell of the sand and the warmth of the sun. He let his head roll back as he inhaled deeply, stretching out his arms.
“Keep on, Icarus,” German said. The man stepped up next to him, setting a guiding hand on his shoulder. “Staring into the sun you can do on other day–not now.”
John blinked rapidly, shuffling along the giant beside him. Looking around, he realized he’d never taken in the surroundings of his prison. For weeks, the complex had been a swirl of gravel roads, roaring trucks, and open-mouthed hangars spitting out a constant circus of armed men and vehicles all chortling with black smoke.
Beyond the chaos, the base was unnaturally dull. Gray roads jutted back and forth between tan painted buildings of brick and stucco. One or two bundles of sagebrush suffered in the parched earth along the roads, but any vegetation was vastly outnumbered by the amount of litter scattered throughout the base. Cigarette butts were as common as rocks.
“Welcome to Javelin headquarters,” German said. He walked like a child stomping through puddles on a rainy day, his head held high to keep it from getting wet. The man was taller than John who already stood a head or two more than most people he knew. “Here you will live, train, and not become burden on taxpayer paycheck. I will take you to where you will stay–meet rest of unit.”
John thought to speak up, but every word was choked back by his tongue–stupefied with ambivalence. More questions burned by than he could think to act on. What is Javelin? Why are they working with the Russians? Are you mercenaries? And who else survived the raid–when will we go back to find them?
Foolishly naive, he felt like a lost lamb separated from the flock, tugged along by an invisible leash. He should be clawing to get home–back to the fight, but he was here, dumbly gawking at the American militia complex he was to be a part of. Curiosity was taking over his intuition.
Down the road, tall concrete barriers could be seen towering over the edges of the complex. Coils of barbed wire ran high along the walls, obscuring the horizon. Higher still were guard posts raised on metal stilts where armed men paced in meager shade.
This is a prison.
German directed him around a corner where, ahead, a gated compound surrounded long rows of rectangular buildings. “Barracks this way,” said German. The buildings looked like enlarged shipping containers with small windows and corrugated, metal walls. Each window was occupied by a small white air conditioner, making the facades appear to grin at their approach. Each barracks row had a second level as well, accessible by metal stairs along either end.
Men bustled throughout the barracks' grounds half-dressed or armored head to toe. A mixture of sobriety seemed to flow through them as some smoked cigarettes, played cards, worked on fixing mismatched tans, or jogged the perimeter in bizarrely short shorts. Others marched by in crisp uniforms with freshly shaven faces on to wherever duty took them. It reminded him of an overcrowded ‘Little ‘Merica’ back in the village.
Amidst the rabble, a soldier weaved chaotically to break free of the military slums. Brushing through a group of smokers by the fenced entrance, he clipped the strap of a helmet beneath his chin with one hand while hoisting a bulging backpack over his shoulder with the other. The overstuffed pack swung a man clear off his feet as he passed, sending him rattling into the fence. A spree of swearing and resounding laughter followed the soldier out who snapped either an apology or insult before setting into a low-spirited jog.
John couldn’t help but notice the amount of faces lift from their drinking games as they drew closer. They could smell the fresh meat entering the wolf’s den, their dilated eyes glaring over black-framed sunglasses. Their expressions hardened as each of them acknowledged their entering of the compound.
Tobacco, coffee, and rank sweat punched into John’s nostrils as they crossed the line onto the barrack’s grounds. John’s jaw clenched, pressing his tongue to the roof of his mouth to keep out the foul mix of tastes.
“Our room is toward back of barracks,” German noted. He gestured with a wide, sweeping hand that also acted to part a group of gawkers.
Why are they all looking at me? John pulled at his shirt, searching for whatever set him apart from the rest. Most of the soldiers dressed in the same uniform, apart from a few who wore pit-stained t-shirts as opposed to the matching button-down shirt John wore.
“They know what you are,” German said knowingly as they walked. He looked at John over his shoulder. “They think you are professional killer–Soviets, Afghans–all die at your hands. They call you Butcher.”
“That’s not me,” John burst out. He couldn’t stand that accusation anymore. He’d only defended himself from murderers–people who deserved what they got. They have to see that!
“Still, is your nickname–Butcher,” German shrugged, ducking beneath a clothesline stretched between two of the buildings. John spun as he maneuvered under wet shirts and underwear.
“If you not like, I will drop it then, yes?” added the Russian.
Shadowed looks followed them as they walked between the buildings, all stirring with erratic life. The barracks was a practical bazaar of American squalor. Tinny music echoed from open windows, chirping into obscurity amongst barrel-chested laughter and blaring chatter. A group of men tripped around a dirty soccer ball nearby while others coerced opponents to heighten their bets in a dice game, each sitting atop mesh crates and overturned water barrels as seats. Posters of half-naked women were adorned on every surface. Above, Soviet propaganda banners hung like trophies from the second-floor windows, often riddled with bullet-holes. An older man trudged drunkenly between gatherings to pass out issues of both the Kabul and New York Times. None of this was what John ever imagined the American military to be.
What had he expected? Clean-shaven stoics in unspattered uniforms maybe? Symbols of the stable, modern world? Perhaps they were. His father would have been aghast.
“What is this place?” John asked.
“Barracks–for Javelin,” German insisted. They turned the corner at the end of the alley. John relaxed a bit, having made it through the hedonistic gauntlet.
“These are the Americans?” John pushed ahead. These couldn’t be the people his father had staked their future on.
“Some,” German kept his attention forward. “Javelin is all sorts–you want American soldiers, they are next camp over–but live in tents, so…your choice.”
John almost sighed in relief. Whatever Javelin was, it couldn’t be the kind of people the Americans would want to be associated with.
“No more questions. We are here,” German made for the last building on the block, which eased John’s nerves a little more since it was the cleanest. There were several crumpled newspapers, a beer bottle or two, and an old rusted out oil drum sitting on its side near their building, but the alley was devoid of western frivolity otherwise. Additionally, John spied another entrance in the chain link fence near their destination.
Useful, thought John. A fleeting urge to run welled up inside him. Part of him listened to it.
“John,” German called. The Russian waited in the barracks doorway. John realized he had stopped dead in the alleyway, his hands wound into tight fists. “Inside.” German pointed a meaty finger through the door.
Head lowered, John ducked past him into the building’s cool interior. He found himself inside a mud-room lined with green lockers which were set above two rows of wooden benches. Stickers, exotic postcards, and sticky notes were slapped over the locker’s surfaces, giving each a personal flare of wild colors that made John’s pupils skip about. A few of the lockers had the names of their owners drawn crudely with thick marker or sprayed in slashes of black spray paint.
To his left, the barracks ran doorless to the other end where another mud-room of graffitied lockers sat beneath a fluorescent glow. Filed along the walls between the two locker rooms were twenty or so metal bunks made neatly with unified, off-blue bedding. Each was paired with a scuffy, second-hand trunk by the foot of every bed.
A few clusters of men relaxed around the beds–and a woman too, John noticed in the corner of his eye. One or two soldiers looked to be sleeping, though it didn’t seem possible so close to the verbose conversations being had around one of the many air conditioners. Some of the machines were operating, humming harshly and chilling the air beyond need for a morning in early spring. A shiver crawled up John’s skin, though not only from the brisk air.
There were so many people. Too many. His stomach twisted in knots.
German stepped over to block John’s view of the bunkroom. “This is locker room–you, you don’t get locker,” German leaned in, wagging a finger and directing John’s view back to the mud-room. “No reason to be in here but to take boots off to kick out sand. No rummaging. Locked.” He rapped a knuckle against one of the lockers as if to illustrate how impregnable it was.
John made a face.
“Bed and footlocker, yes, you will have,” German nodded with a raised brow. Lockers, footlockers, boots–John couldn’t care less. He wanted to get settled–weigh his situation. He needed to find the Captain he spoke to before, the one Lochte mentioned–Davy. That man would help him–he said so himself.
“No lock on footlocker, though. Personal things you want to put in there–will probably be stolen, hmph,” German said in an annoyed tone, cocking an eye over his shoulder to the bunkroom.
With a clap of his hands, German stood and motioned John into the room. Heads were already turning as John struggled to gather himself, standing wide-eyed before the mass of onlookers. There wasn’t a moment to prepare. John tightened his expression, and attempted to appear forbearing.
“Comrades,” German announced at a brash volume. “May I introduce our new boy, John–Butcher of the Soviet Union!”
John turned, mortified. The Russian burst into laughter, happily folding his arms and kicking his head back with guffaw. John’s self-assurance melted before the gaggle. Any chance of clearing speculation from himself had just been marred–all thanks to the Russian.
“Jesus, Captain wasn’t joking,” said a man sitting on one of the footlockers. He had closely cropped, red hair and freckles that squeezed at the top of his nose with a look of either concern or aversion.
“Tch, gotta be kidding me,” another man muttered. This one had a horrid scar twisting from the corner of his mouth to his ear, permanently pushing his cheek up into his eye. Tufts of matted brown hair fell into his two bushy eyebrows, darkening his fouled expression. “Fuckin’ stuck with ‘im–”
“Can it–,” a lanky man chirped. He was as short as he was thin, and could have been mistaken for a broom set on its end thanks to his outgrown buzzed hair if it hadn’t been for a pair of glaring glasses pressed high against his face.
“You sure he’s house-trained, Orlov?” someone scoffed. “Not gonna kill us in our sleep?”
“This boy?” German’s chest heaved with another bout of laughter. The Russian pushed past John, taking him by the arm and pulling him into the circle that was forming. “Oh, little Icarus has the fire in his eye, yes, but cannot hurt fly, aha! Very obedient, this one.”
John glared at him, yanking his arm from the Russian’s grasp.
“Looks like he can barely stand on his own,” the woman’s voice spoke up. “Really should’a left him back in Afghanistan–hope George made the right call on this one.”
The woman, dressed in khaki trousers and a tucked, white shirt, pushed herself off from the wall. She stepped up to him, sizing John with doubtful eyes. Her pursed lips and flat expression reminded him of Nuria, but she was older by a few years and angular with lean muscle. John found himself staring nonetheless.
She caught the look in his eye and curled her nose. Arms folded, she placed herself back into the ranks of downcast glares. John’s face warmed as his eyes darted from her to the growing crowd. The attention was unbearable.
An arm lurched around John’s neck, squeezing his throat shut between a sticky forearm and bicep. His heart flung against his ribs as he snapped his hands to the attacker’s arm.
“What was it like, huh? Killing those fuckin’ commies?” a rough, humid voice spat in his ear. Electricity surged behind John’s eyes. He wanted to scream, heat pulsing beneath his skin.
“Let ‘im go,” said someone in the crowd. “Don’t start shit.”
The arm slacked, and John spun about, shoving the man away. John wanted to yell at him, but his throat flared with dry pain. He could only snarl, sauntering backward until he collided with another soldier in the circle who promptly pushed him back into the ring.
“Careful–might set him off!” someone heckled, followed by nervous laughter.
German pushed the attacker hard off his feet onto the bunk behind him. Between stuttered coughs, the man cackled as he bounced on the springy mattress. He was as greasy as he was sweaty, with coils of black hair that stuck out like crooked twigs.
“Jus’ wanted to see what kind of man he is,” the man said, sitting up. He tongued the corners of his mouth and smiled, sliding a sickly look up at John with bloodshot eyes. “He ain’t no killer–just a kid.” The man’s body was covered in smudgy black tattoos: skulls, riflemen, and helicopters smeared over a hazy sunset.
“Don’t touch,” German said. “Boy is my responsibility.” He turned to slap a meaty hand on John’s shoulder. John flinched, his lungs shuddering with every breath. He couldn’t take any more of this. “But if he causes problem–no worry, I shoot him, yeah?” German smiled at John who returned a harsh look.
“Give him a chance to talk for himself,” the redhead approached, his hand outstretched. “Becker–was with the team that picked you up back in Andam. Sorry about what happened.”
John eyed the gesture suspiciously, his fingers twitching at his sides.
The door opened with a bang just then and in marched the Captain. He was taller than the rest, except German–but nearly rivaled his brawn. The Captain had a leader’s face: a sharp jaw, tight brow, and a distinguished moustache that covered his lip and hid any hint of emotion. He was the kind of man who knew who he was, and carried it in his stride.
Dusty boots ignored the rules of cleanliness German had just bestowed on John as the Captain crossed the room and through the circle of spectators. John whirled as everyone was suddenly at their feet and out of the Captain’s way. German had to pull John aside before he was run down.
To his surprise, John felt excited, a sudden pride in the role he would play under the man who offered him his retribution. His prior angst seemed to pass as anticipation brewed in his core.
“Gents,” the Captain said, stopping beside one of the bunks. He stooped over a trunk and flipped its latch, quickly retrieving something from inside. With a single flick of his wrist, he shut the trunk and latched it–a practiced move. The Captain straightened up, placing a fat cigar in his mouth and biting off the tip with a swift ‘chunk’. “You mind, Birdie?”
“No, sir,” a strange voice replied in an accent unfamiliar to John. German’s warning about keeping goods in the trunks was affirmed, but the men didn’t seem to mind when it was the Captain that partook.
“Helping with patrols tonight,” the Captain announced, rummaging through one of the many pouches strapped to his harness. “Will, Murphy, Arthur–you’re zone four, sector one. Becker, Ben, Birdie–zone five, sector two–”
“Triple ‘B’ squad–oorah!” someone jeered.
“Rest of you are on standby,” the Captain continued. “Troy, you’re with me tonight–need some overwatch. The op’s solo, but I’d appreciate an extra set of eyes on my ass.”
“Sir,” a sharp eyed man named Troy said. He had a jagged appearance in his shoulders and folded arms, and short hair that jutted out from his scalp like a natural cap to shield his eyes from the sun.
“What do I do?” John spouted. He couldn’t help himself, a rush had taken over. His palms were sweating as he dug his nails into his fists. When do I get my gear? Do I get a gun?–of course I do! He wondered if they’d run into Soviets tonight.
“Nothing,” the Captain said. The man flared his nostrils, hardly giving John a glance. The Captain plucked a lighter from one of his pouches finally and struck the flame alive, bringing it up to scorch the end of his cigar.
John’s stomach sank.
“German, get the kid oriented and then take him to intel. See if they don’t need another interpreter. We know by now he speaks Russian or Pashto–see which fits his alibi,” The Captain marched for the door, leaving behind a trail of eye-stinging smoke.
“George,” German acknowledged. The Russian gave John a pat on the back, then turned him away before he could protest.
John’s spirit was shattered. He had just landed in another prison. Yet again, he was too naive, too hopeful to realize what was happening before it was too late. They weren’t going to help him, they were going to babysit him–keep him under Lochte’s thumb. He should have run for the gate when he had the chance.
German led him back to one of the beds. The footlocker paired with it was drab and worn along its edges; except someone had scratched the name ‘Butcher’ in long, roughly hacked letters on its surface–along with many other expletives. John’s stomach burned.
Let me go home, he prayed.
“Hm,” German hummed. He bent over the trunk, examining the carvings. “Many names for you. Looks like they could not guess right one. We’ll mark new name, hm?”
John blinked, glaring at the Russian, his lip drooping with dejection.
“At Javelin, we call on one another by last name–as formality, unless with comrades. Good if talking to Americans or CIA on other side of HQ,” German said. The Russian glanced at John, then looked to the ceiling, a hand placed on the back of his hand as if to distance himself from the situation. “You have such name, or…?”
“Rycroft,” John said after a moment.
