he insisted on living like a monk. He’d given away most of his money, but he still had plenty saved. And if he found something that he thought he would use, like a new motorcycle, he would buy it. But he had no interest in accumulating possessions for their own sake. Brand names and new clothes meant nothing to him. He didn’t want much, and what he wanted, he had.
In other words, buying presents for him was a nightmare.
Anne spun her finger,
“They’re great. Thank you.” Wells put them on, went into the bathroom, and checked himself out. “Nice,” he said. “I look like the sidekick in an eighties action movie. The guy who gets killed a half hour in.”
“I think they’re very Dirty Harry. You really like them?”
“I do.” He came back into the bedroom and picked her up.
“They’re sexy.”
“You’re sexy.” He kissed her, chastely at first and then openmouthed. He laid her on the bed as Tonka grumbled and jumped off. She was wearing only a T-shirt and sweatpants.
She smirked. “I want you to leave them on.”
“That’s kinda creepy.”
She ran her tongue across her upper lip, intentionally lewd. “Remember I’m from the generation that grew up with Internet porn.”
“I thought nice girls didn’t watch porn.”
“All girls watch porn.” She reached up, pulled him down onto the bed. “You’d better leave them on.”
He left them on.
THE JET EASED into a slow descent. Then the overhead lights kicked on and the speakers crackled. “Captain Hawes here. Beauty sleep’s over. We’re about a hundred miles from Bagram. Buckle up, stow your gear, turn off anything with a battery. Should be on the ground in about twenty-five minutes. Though if you send a few bucks to the cockpit, I could be convinced to stay up here longer.”
The soldier next to Wells jerked awake. He was a specialist, an E-4. On his sleeve he wore a big yellow patch with a dark black horse’s head — the insignia for the 1st Cavalry Division, the famous 1st Cav, whose history dated to 1921. “I miss anything?”
“Nope. You’re with First Cav?”
“Yeah, Second Battalion. You?”
“I was a Ranger once upon a time. A while back. Then I worked at Langley for a while.”
“Now you’re a contractor? You guys usually fly commercial.”
“I get off on leg cramps and the smell of ten thousand farts. How’s business?”
“Ever been to Afghanistan before?”
“Yes.”
“Then you know. The problem with these guys we’re fighting is they like it, you know. After all these years they got a jones for it and they won’t ever stop. How it feels anyway. Only good thing is they’re lousy tactically. They’re not scared, but they can’t shoot straight, and half the bombs they make don’t go off. Otherwise more of us would be coming home in bags.”
“People have been fighting over these mountains for a long time.”
“I got six months left in my tour, and a year after that on my contract, and then I’m done. I thought I wanted to be a lifer, but one round is gonna be it. Lucky me, I only signed a four-year bid, I’ll only be twenty-two when I get out, so I can still do something else.”
“And how’s morale?”
“The PR is not the best time to ask.”
“PR?”
“Parole Revoker. What we call these flights back from leave. That’s why you’re not hearing any hoo-ahs or singing or anything to get us chunked up. But, you know. Guys hang in. My sarge and loot aren’t too bad, so I can’t complain. And on my base, we live okay. Hot food, showers, laundry, free Internet at the MWR.” The Morale, Welfare, and Recreation Office.
“Not everybody’s got it so good.”
“Heck, no. The small outposts, firebases, it’s MREs, cold showers, no coms. They live like dogs. Every so often, you hear about a platoon that’s got real messed up.”
Not exactly what Wells was here to investigate, but he was intrigued. “Messed up how?”
“Drugs. Target practice on civvies. Ugliness. But it’s just rumors.”
“It always is. Till it’s real.”
“Anyway. I’m Howard Gordon. Specialist Gordon.” The guy extended a hand.
“John Wells.”
“John Wells. Why do I know that name?”
“I did something interesting once. A few years back.” Wells had been a celebrity after his first big mission. Since then, he’d kept his head down. Most civilians had forgotten him. Wells saw that the amnesia had spread to the military. At least the junior guys. Not that he minded. He didn’t have an ego. Anonymity worked to his advantage.
Okay, maybe he minded a little.
“That bomb — in New York—” Gordon said.
“Yeah. That was me.”
“You don’t mind my asking, what are you doing here?”
“Somebody asked me to come check things out.”
“You want my opinion?”
“Sure.”
“I say we bring in a pile of AKs, RPGs. They got plenty already, but let’s make sure everybody has one. And some bigger stuff, too. Then you know what we do?”
“Tell me.”
“Build a wall around the whole country, twenty feet high, concrete. Then we leave. We set up outside, watch the perimeter, make sure none of them get out. And we let ’em have at it. Because they will, man. If they don’t have us to kill they’ll just take turns popping each other. Like checkers, jump, jump, double jump, clearing out the board. Until there’s only one left. When we see that one guy, you know what we do?”
“Kill him?”
“Too easy. Let him have it. He earned it. He’s King Turd of Asscrackistan.”
“Asscrackistan.”
“Never heard anyone call it that?”
Wells shook his head.
“You will.”
THE JET CAME IN hard and fast and stopped quickly, tossing Wells forward in his seat. A drawn-out sigh rose from the soldiers, air leaking from a punctured tire, not a groan but not a cheer.
“Welcome home,” the captain said. Specialist Gordon raised twin middle fingers to the front of the cabin. Wells wished he had room to stretch. His hamstrings felt especially tight. Anne was pushing him to take up yoga. He might have to give in.
Gordon didn’t seem bothered. He was a head shorter than Wells and narrow shouldered, but he shouldered his pack easily, rolled his neck. “You look tired, man.”
“Wishing I were twenty again, instead of twice that.”
“I’ll be twenty-one next month. Get to celebrate here. Woo-hoo.”
“Should be fun.”
“I can’t believe that back home I’m not old enough to get a beer without sneaking around. When I get out of here, I’m going to Myrtle Beach with my boys, make up for lost time, drink until I can’t stand.”
The unspoken part of the sentence went,
