The War in 2020

The fright mask of Taylor's face never changed expression.

'Bullshit. I'll be glad to let you know when you're fucking up, Lieutenant. In the meantime I need every officer I've got.' Taylor breathed deeply, as if disgusted at Meredith's childishness, refusing to make any attempt to understand. 'Request denied.'

'Sir…' Meredith began, in a peevish fury. He did not know what he might say, but he sensed it was now utterly impossible for him to go on performing this mission. He would not go back into those streets. At least not in uniform.

'Lieutenant,' Taylor cut him off, 'it would be a wonderful thing if military service consisted of nothing but doing the right thing when the choices are easy, of kicking the shit out of some evil foreign sonsofbitches with horns and tails, then coming home to a big parade.' Taylor's eyes burned into his subordinate's. 'Unfortunately, it also consists of trying to figure out what the hell the right thing can possibly be when the orders are unclear, the mission stinks, and everybody's in a hopeless muddle. A soldier's duty…' Taylor intoned the last word in a voice of granite, 'is to do an honest day's work in dishonest times… and to make the best out of the worst fucking mess imaginable. It means… believing in your heart that some things are more important than your personal devils… or even your personal beliefs. It means the willingness to give up… everything.' Taylor sat back in his chair, never breaking eye contact. 'And sometimes it just means lacing up your boots one more time when the whole world's going to shit. You got that, Lieutenant?'

'Yes, sir. I've got it,' Meredith lied, feeling only confusion in his mind and heart.

'Then get out of here and get some sleep.'

Meredith snapped to attention and saluted, hoping that this outward display of self-possession would hide his inner collapse. He did a crisp about-face and marched toward the door. He was no longer angry with Taylor. He simply hated him for his strength, his superiority.

'Oh, Lieutenant?' Taylor called, just as Meredith was about to step into the safety of the hall.

'Sir?'

'I heard that you killed a man today. First time, I believe?'

'Yes, sir.'

Taylor considered the younger man across the emotional vastness in the room. 'Did you… happen to notice the color of his skin?'

Meredith felt an explosion of fury within himself beside which his earlier anger had been inconsequential.

'Sir. I killed a black man, sir.'

Taylor nodded. He looked at Meredith calmly, ignoring the rage, the disrespect in the lieutenant's tone of voice.

'Lieutenant, it is my personal belief… that self-pity has ruined more good men than all the bad women in history. Decide who the fuck you are by tomorrow… and, if you still want to transfer out, I'll expedite the orders. Carry on.'

Meredith returned to his billet and beat his locker with his fists until the knuckles bled and he could not stand the pain any longer. He did not know if he had broken any of the bones in his fingers or hand, and he refused to care. In the brackish hours before dawn, he decided, with the firmness of stone, that he would take Taylor up on his offer first thing in the morning. Then he fell asleep, torn hands burning, to the distant music of helicopter patrols.

He woke to a knock on his door. It was a Hispanic lieutenant Meredith had never seen before. The new man looked embarrassed.

'Sorry to wake you up.'

Meredith mumbled a response, straining to clear his head.

'I'm Manny Martinez,' the new officer said, thrusting out his hand, 'the new supply officer. You're Lieutenant Meredith, right?'

'Yeah.'

'The operations center sent me down to get you. Lieutenant Barret's down sick, and Major Taylor wants you to pull his duty for him. I told him I could do it, but—' Meredith looked at the new man as they shook hands. Earnest. He seemed very young, although Meredith recognized that they were, in fact, approximately the same age. The visitor spoke with an accent that declared, 'I'm from Texas and I'm educated, by God,' with no trace of a Spanish drawl.

'It's okay,' Meredith said, recognizing that he could not be a party to any action that sent this unblooded officer out into the streets in his place.

'— the ops sergeant said it's just a routine convoy. Same route you had yesterday.' The new lieutenant spoke nervously, infinitely unsure of himself. 'I told them I'd be glad to do it.'

'Take it easy, man. It's okay,' Meredith said. 'I just need to get some coffee.'

3

Mexico

2016

'They call him El Diablo,' the scout said, still breathless from his climb. The arroyo in which the guerrillas hid their vehicles lay far below the mountain village. 'The country people say he has risen from the dead.'

'What's he saying?' Captain Morita, the unit's Japanese adviser, demanded. His Spanish was limited to a very few words, and he showed little interest in learning more. Everything had to be translated into English for him.

Colonel Ramon Vargas Morelos did not mind that so much. He was very proud of his English, which he had learned in the border towns where he had worked hard as a drug runner in the days before he became a Hero of the Revolution. And the Japanese officer's lack of Spanish made him easier to control.

Vargas purposely delayed answering the Japanese. The man's tone was too insistent, almost disrespectful. Vargas was, after all, a colonel, and he took his time with the translation, glancing arrogantly around the smoky brown interior of the cantina. A litter of unmatched tables and chairs. An old dog who scratched himself with the imprecision of a rummy. Vargas stretched the moment, examining everything in the room except the Japanese. Disordered ranks of bottles behind the bar, a mirror split diagonally by a frozen fork of lightning. Fading postcards from Tucson and Pasadena, garish in the light of the storm lantern.

Finally, he turned to face Morita. 'He says,' Vargas began, 'that the new gringo commander has brought a nickname with him. People call him 'The Devil.' ' He did not bother to translate the matter of the American's supposed resurrection. It was one of those things that the Japanese officer would not understand, and Vargas had already suffered enough remarks about the backwardness of his countrymen.

Morita grunted. 'That is hardly useful intelligence.'

Vargas briefly turned his back on Morita and the scout and leaned onto the bar. 'Hey, you fucking dog,' he called to the bartender. 'Bring me two fucking tequilas.'

The bartender moved very quickly. Contented, Vargas rolled his torso around so that he faced the scout again, with his back and elbows resting on the long wooden counter.

'Go on, Luis,' Vargas said. 'Tell me about this devil who fucks his mother.'

The scout was covered in sweat. The night was cool up in the desert mountains, but the climb up the trail to the broad, bowllike plateau where the village hid had drained the man's pores. That was good. It told Vargas that the man took his responsibilities seriously. Had he strolled into the cantina looking too easy and rested, Vargas would have shot him.

'There is a great fear of this one, my colonel,' the scout continued. 'The gringos brought him in from San Miguel de Allende. They say he was a bastard there. They say he has the face of a devil. He wears silver spurs, and he whistles an old Irish song. They say that no man who hears those spurs and the sound of his whistling will live long.

Vargas picked up one of the small glasses of tequila and gestured for the scout to help himself to the other.