The Shadow Patrol

them. The air was sweet and greasy, with a bitter tang underneath. A mix of wood smoke, cooking oil, and sewage.

Fowler heard the voices of women and children hiding in the houses. The words faded as he moved closer, picked up again once he passed. They couldn’t see him and still they treated him like a leper. As if even their voices were a gift he didn’t deserve. He wanted to hate them. But then, they hadn’t asked him to come here. He reached the house where the Afghan had led Rodriguez and Roman. This was the fanciest place in town, the tallest midget, with seven-foot walls and a filigreed gate. He peeked through the filigree—

And a single shot cracked behind him. Fowler flattened himself against the wall, checked left and right. Chickens squawked wildly. Behind him, Young tossed away his cigarette and scanned the empty fields that lay between them and the rest of the platoon. Fowler wondered whether the Talibs had lured them out here to cut them off, trap them.

But nothing happened. Terror and boredom, the twin poles of infantry duty. The chickens chattered away. Fowler took advantage of their noise to pull open the gate. He slipped inside, two quick sliding steps.

The yard was empty aside from a rusty Weber gas grill, which didn’t make sense, and a brand-new ATV, which kinda did. A diesel engine, probably an electrical generator, hummed somewhere in back. Electricity and an ATV. By local standards, whoever owned this place was living large. Fowler eased the gate shut and waited for someone to open the door, walk out of the house. But no one did.

Fowler stepped forward, then hesitated, holding his left leg off the ground with the exaggerated care of Inspector Clouseau. He could explain everything he’d done so far. He could say he’d come up for orders. But if he sneaked up to the house to see what Rodriguez was doing inside… Spying on a sergeant was definitely a no- no.

But maybe he wasn’t spying at all. Maybe they needed him. Maybe the Talibs had captured Rodriguez and Roman. Fowler imagined them tied back-to-back. They looked up in awe as Fowler picked off the insurgents one by one, with the practiced double taps of a Special Forces lifer. Fowler saluted them casually: No need to thank me. Just doing my job. The vision was ridiculous. Still, it spurred him. He crossed the yard, pressed himself against the house.

And heard a voice. A woman. Moaning quietly. Had he stumbled on a brothel? Impossible. The Afghans stoned women to death just for talking to men. Fowler inched along the side of the house to a window covered by a wrought-iron grille. He lowered himself to his knees, peeked in—

And found himself watching porn. The video was playing on a television propped against the back wall. Rodriguez and Roman had come here to watch porn? Fowler didn’t get it. Then he looked around the room and—

Everything made sense. Roman sat against the wall, a glass pipe in one hand, lighter in the other. He flicked the lighter to the pipe and sucked, greedy as a newborn. He exhaled a gray cloud and rubbed his stomach happily. “Good smoke,” he said to the ceiling. “Steep and deep.”

Rodriguez ignored the commentary. He stood next to a wooden table as the Afghan with the scar put two plastic-wrapped bricks on a digital scale. “Two point zero exactly. Sixteen kilos total.”

Rodriguez pulled a Ka-Bar, a knife, off his belt. He carefully sliced the plastic around one of the bricks. “What is that?” the Afghan said.

“Testing, one, two, three.” Rodriguez pulled a pouch from his backpack. “Soon as this powder in here turns green, we’re ready to go.”

“I promise you, it’s good.”

“From the factory to you,” Roman said. “Buy direct and save.”

Rodriguez stepped to the television and kicked over the DVD player hooked to it, stopping the show. “Stand post at the front door, Roman. Lemme finish, get us out of here. We wasted too much time already.”

“Sir, respectfully point out that I am stoned to the gills and not at full combat readiness—”

Rodriguez snapped the pipe from Roman’s hand. “Now. Before I jam this down your throat.”

Fowler picked up his helmet, pushed himself up, inched along the wall. Then he heard Roman’s gear rattling inside the house and his composure broke. He ran for the gate.

Back on the street, he closed the gate as smoothly as he could. He checked over his shoulder. The house’s front door was just opening. Fowler squared his shoulders and walked back to Coleman Young. He didn’t look back. He was proud of himself for that much anyway.

“I miss anything?” Young said.

“No kebabs. The door was closed and I couldn’t decide whether to knock. I stood there until I felt stupid and left.”

“That’s it.”

“That’s it.”

“Huh. What happened to your pants?”

Fowler looked down. His knees were covered with a dark brown splotch that stank of diesel. He must have knelt in a puddle without realizing. It was the porn’s fault. The porn had distracted him. He wiped madly at the stain and succeeded only in covering his hands with a greasy film. Might as well be wearing a sign that said “I’ve been spying on you, Sergeant.”

“It was a drug deal. A big one. They had a scale.”

“Don’t tell me.”

“Kilos. It’s true.”

Young grabbed Fowler’s Kevlar, pulled him close. “I don’t care if it’s true. I don’t want to hear it.”

“What do I do, Coleman?”

“You keep your mouth shut, Private.” Young pushed Fowler back so hard that he nearly fell on his butt. “Be cool. They coming now.”

Fowler turned. Rodriguez and Roman walked toward him. The Afghan in the blue robe was gone. Probably still in the house, watching porn. A real good Muslim. Dealing smack to the infidels.

Roman grinned at them, pointed a finger pistol at Fowler. Fowler’s mouth went dry. If he didn’t calm down, he feared he might cry. “I’m not built for this, Sergeant,” he muttered.

“It’s all right, Ricky. Nothing’s gonna happen now. I’ll watch your back and we’ll talk later. Back at the FOB.” Young tapped out two Newports, handed one to Fowler. Fowler wiped his mouth, lit up, puffed away.

“Tastes like an air freshener.”

“Good for you. Makes your lungs all minty. Smile and salute.”

B Team rounded the corner as Rodriguez reached them. His backpack sat snug on his shoulders, Fowler saw. All that extra weight. “Anything to report?”

“That one shot,” Young said. “Nothing else.”

“All right. We’re done here then. Got a couple names. Probably junk but Weston’ll like it. He can give it to the G-2.” The battalion intelligence officer.

“They’ll give him a pat on the head and a present with a big red bow.”

“When Daddy’s happy, everybody’s happy.” Rodriguez poked at Fowler’s knees with the muzzle of his carbine. “What happened there, Private?”

“Sir. Figured I’d look over the left side of the villa. Fell in a puddle of diesel. I think it was diesel, anyway, sir. Smells like it.”

“Excellent soldiering. We get home, I’m signing you up for the Very Special Forces, where everybody’s a winner.”

“I think of myself as a very special soldier, sir.”

“Yes, you are. You see anything over there around the corner? Besides the puddle?”

Fowler held Rodriguez’s eyes. “Goats, Sergeant. Nothing but goats.”

“All right then. For showing that initiative, I’m giving you point on the way back, Private. Look alive. Do me proud.”

“Yes, sir.”

THEY SHUFFLED BACK toward Hamza Ali. For once, Fowler wasn’t worried about mines. He couldn’t stop thinking about the scale, those plastic-wrapped bricks. He’d seen drugs before. Heck, he’d grown up two hours from the Mexican border. He’d smoked pot like everyone else in the universe.