Life During Wartime

‘Do you still want me to leave?’

She appeared to be checking inside herself, sounding for an answer. No,’ she said, brightening. Why don’t you have another drink and tell me about New York. About yourself. You’ve hardly told me anything. Of course that’s always how it is with I-Ops… they’re secretive even about trivialities.’ She reached for the gin bottle, paused. ‘But you’re no I-Op, are you?’

‘What gives you that idea?’

‘Every I-Op I’ve ever met has been cold and given to drinking bourbon and gazing moodily toward the Red Menace as if he was yearning to have a Commie in his sights. You’re not like that.’

‘I guess I’m a new breed.’

She studied him for a long time before pouring. ‘I just bet you are,’ she said.

The patrol that escorted them across the valley consisted of ten men, bulky and alien-looking in their combat gear, their faceplates aglow with green letters and numerals from the computer displays inside the helmets, their minds awhirl with Sammy. There was no moon at first, but as they moved through the thickets, hugging the side of a hill, flares burst above them, explosions sent blooms of orange flame boiling up toward the clouds, and iridescent rains of tracers poured down from circling gunships: a constant incidence of roaring light that silhouetted twigs and leaves, and shimmered in blazes on the faceplates of the soldiers. When the moon sailed clear of the clouds, its radiance was almost unnoticeable. Mingolla and the rest had been outfitted with throat mikes and miniature speakers affixed to their ears so they could communicate with the soldiers, and he listened to their tinny voices with amazement, wondering at their delight in this environment, which seemed to him infernal.

‘Son of a bitch!’ said one, a kid named Bobby Boy. ‘See that muthafucka go, man! Musta hit a fuel cell.’

And the sergeant of the patrol, a wiry light-skinned black named Eddie, said, ‘That ain’t shit, man! Wait’ll you see one of them little tanks get it. Man, one of them goes, it’s the fuckin’ Fourth of July. All them missiles touchin’ off… red and green streaks of fire. That’s somethin’, that’s really somethin’.’

‘I seen that,’ said Bobby Boy querulously. ‘You tryin’ to say I ain’t seen that? I been here ’bout as long as you, man.’

Eddie grunted. ‘You be so fuckin’ high, you liable to see anything.’

‘Hey,’ said another voice. ‘You fuckers watch yo’ mouth! We got us a lady present.’

‘Shut the fuck up, Sebo,’ came back Bobby Boy. ‘That ol’ girl’s I-Op. They probably bugged her yummy ’fore they sent her out here. They… Wow! Awright! See that bitch blow, man? See that gold color in the heart? That’s fuckin’ weird! Wonder what the Fritos got burns gold.’

‘Probably all the grease they eat,’ said somebody new.

Mingolla, made uneasy by all this, walked closer to Debora. In the flashes of the explosions, her eyes burned red, her shadow hands looked to be seven-fingered. ‘You okay,’ he said, just to say something, forgetting the throat mike.

‘I do believe,’ said Bobby Boy, ‘those two I-Ops got a little somethin’ goin’.’

‘Bet she knows how to throw it,’ said Sebo. ‘Bet I-Op teaches ’em all kinda slick tricks.’

‘Shut ya hole!’ said Eddie.

‘Bet she gotta educated love muscle… make ya shoot silver bullets.’

‘I tol’ ya, shut up!’

‘Can’t stop me from dreamin’,’ said Sebo. ‘I dreamin’ ’bout both of ’em, slim there and the one with the rose eye.’

‘You can dream,’ said Tully. ‘But you be watchful, or dere gonna be one big nigger in your dream… unnerstan’?’

‘Wouldn’t mess with him, Sebo,’ said Eddie. ‘The man sound serious.’

‘Serious? Shit!’ Sebo giggled. ‘This the wrong goddamn war for serious.’

‘I think,’ said Ruy nervously, ‘it would be best for everyone to keep their minds on the crossing.’

‘That’s that skinny beaner talkin’, ain’t it?’ said Billy Boy. ‘Hey, Frito! I don’t like you, man! You gimme the excuse, you ain’t gonna have to worry ’bout no crossin’.’

An explosion nearby shook the ground, orange light illuminated the figures of the soldiers, freezing them in a tableau, transforming the outlines of trees and shrubs into a bizarre menagerie of shapes. Mingolla and Debora crouched behind a bush, but the soldiers turned their faces to the light like pilgrims brought hard upon their central mystery. The explosion seemed to calm them, and once the glare had faded, they continued on in silence.

They crossed the valley without incident, but as they crested a rise overlooking the ruined village where they would await transport to Panama, a soldier about twenty yards ahead of Mingolla was flipped into the air by a burst of flame beneath his feet, and rifle fire began striking around them. Mingolla pulled Debora down, going flat. Screams and agitated voices came over the transmitter. His mouth was full of dirt, and he was very afraid. He aimed his rifle at the shadowy brush and opened up; the sound of his fire was drowned out by the crump of high explosive ammunition. The voices and the gunfire seemed to be speaking as one, blending into a weird percussive language. So much noise and fury, Mingolla felt a hot wind was blowing at hurricane force, driving red splinters of fear through him. Debora wrangled her rifle out from beneath her and began to fire; he could feel its heat and vibration on his face. Then it was over. The guns fell quiet, and the moonlight appeared to reassemble, to fit around every shape, making them sharp and recognizable again. Cooling the air. Normal voices filtered in. A groan.

‘Got a live beaner here!’

‘Bring him, man!’

‘Sebo! You in there, man? You awright?’

‘It’s his leg… suit’s gone tight to his leg.’

‘Gimme his numbers, goddammit! What’s his numbers say?’

‘He’s alive! Leg looks fucked, but he’s alive.’

‘Get the I-Ops down the hill!’

‘His medipac’s doin’ for the leg.… He’s cool. Hell, he ain’t feelin’ nothin’.’

‘You okay, Sebo. You hit a mine but you okay.’

‘His leg’s fucked! Check the readout… just little bits of bone floatin’ ’round in there.’

‘Dumbass shit! Shut up!’

‘You talkin’ ’bout my leg, man?’

Two of the soldiers hauled Mingolla and Debora up, hustled them down the hill toward the village. Behind them, Sebo shouted, ‘Whaddaya mean… what’s wrong with my leg?’

The village—a few acres of huts and dirt streets—looked to have been trampled by a giant: roofs staved in, walls crumpled, poles splintered. Ruy and Mingolla and Debora sat beneath the overhang of a canted roof. Tully and Corazon sat apart from them, and farther off stood a group of soldiers. Under the strong moonlight, the snapped poles and crushed thatch took on a dirty grayish black color, and the street glowed lavender gray. All the shadows were sharp and crooked like they might be in Hell. Rocket bursts flickered above the distant hills.

‘Almost home,’ said Ruy.

‘You stupid fuck!’ Mingolla had to make an effort to keep from hitting him. ‘This bullshit tour ’bout gets us killed, and you sit there mouthin’ off ’bout home.’

Ruy, a cross-legged shadow, gave no reply.

‘When will the plane come?’ Debora asked.

‘First light,’ said Ruy. ‘It’ll fly us to an airstrip near the city, and we’ll enter the barrio after dark.’

Three more soldiers came down the street, two of them supporting Sebo, whose leg dragged in the dirt. His combat suit was scorched to the knees. They sat him down between Ruy and Mingolla and removed his helmet. He had close-cropped black hair and a weasly dark face dirtied by a growth of stubble. Mingolla recognized him as the vet who had accosted him in his hallucination, who had recognized him. Sebo was sweating freely, lines of strain bracketing his mouth. The other two soldiers—Bobby Boy and Eddie—removed their helmets and went to their knees beside him.

‘Your suit juice ya up ’nough?’ Bobby Boy asked. He was a hulking kid, crewcut and moon-faced, his features small and regularly spaced, giving him a bland moronic look.

‘Yeah, I’m makin’ it.’ Sebo slurred the words.