the truck here, I want you to take one full platoon to help the ACOE work on a new DMZ.” In plain speak, he wanted me to take the company out to help the Army Corps of Engineers set up a new “demilitarized” zone. In this case, the term “demilitarized zone” meant a highly militarized zone, indeed. Once the Corps of Engineers finished their work, there would not be a safe inch of land west of the hotel.
“Let me get my armor,” I said.
“How’s the shoulder?” Moffat asked.
“Better,” I said. I saluted and caught an elevator to my room.
“You know, you guys don’t need to guard me every specking minute of the day,” Philips complained, as we rode out on the truck.
I leaned back into the canvas awning. I had my helmet off so I could enjoy the bracing feel of the cool air against my face. “I’m not guarding you, Philips, I’m protecting you,” I said.
“I don’t want to be protected,” Philips said. He was dressed in fatigues, the only man on the truck who had not put on armor. There was no rule that said we had to wear armor, but most Marines wanted all the protection they could get when they laid land mines. It seemed like a logical choice—at least it seemed logical to those of us who wanted to survive the detail.
“I like keeping an eye on you, Philips; you’re entertaining. I’ve never watched anybody self-destruct before. It’s kind of exciting.”
“Go speck yourself, Harris.”
I hated to pull rank, but I was an officer, and I could not allow him to show me disrespect in front of the men. “You are speaking to an officer,” I said.
“Sorry. Go speck yourself, sir,” he said.
“What happened to that famous Mark Philips sense of humor?” I asked.
“I left it back at the Hen House,” Philips said.
“Not back on the battlefield?” I asked.
We drove past Vista Street, deep into the neighborhoods on the west edge of town. Men in battle armor and men in fatigues lay in piles along the road. Crews of soldiers worked to clear the streets of death and debris, moving the burned husks of tanks and trucks along with corpses. In a patch of grass by a tumble-down house, a group of soldiers gathered for a smoke and a chat.
“Huish grew up in the same orphanage as me,” Philips said.
“Did you know him?” I asked.
“Are you specking kidding me? He was twenty-three years younger than me. I made corporal by the time he was three.”
“I’ve read your record,” I said. “You were probably busted back down to private again by the time he was four.”
“I specked it all up, didn’t I?” asked Philips. He shook his head. All of the old arrogance drained from his face. He looked physically tired and mentally exhausted.
“You mean at the Hen House? Yes, you specked up royally.”
“You don’t get it, Harris,” Philips said.
“I don’t get what?”
“I don’t give a rat’s ass about Moffat or what he does. Let him shoot me. I don’t give a shit. Thomer says I deserve it. That’s what you think, too.”
I didn’t know what to say, so I said nothing.
“I guess I deserve a good specking, but not because I boffed Moffat’s wife.” He laughed. “Hell, more guys have ridden her than the goddamned Broadcast Network. I’m surprised she managed to work me into her busy schedule.”
“You’re shitting me?” I asked.
“Would I shit you about something like that? I think she has a thing for clones. Half the men guarding the specking Hen House had a roll with her. I think Skittles might have. I was the only one who talked about it.
“He’s doesn’t give a rat’s ass who sleeps with the old girl. He’s just mad ’cause I didn’t keep quiet about it.”
Philips unbuttoned his shirt and showed me his upper arm. “He’s pissed about this,” he said as he displayed the tattoo he’d had placed over the biceps on his right arm. It showed a naked woman, a modern Venus in a half shell with one hand cupped over a breast and the other covering her pelvis. The banner around the picture said “LILLY MOFFAT, COUNT ME IN.”
“Shit, Philips,” I said. “When did you get that?”
“I got this while I was at the Hen House. It was her idea. Harris, she hates Moffat; she offered to pay for the damn tattoo.”
“Nice, Philips. Very nice,” I said. Philips missed the irony in my choice of compliments. “How did Moffat hear about it?”
The truck slowed to a stop. We had come to a busy stretch in which teams of soldiers dragged heavy carts across the six-lane street.
The other men jumped from the truck. Philips stood to join them.
“How did Moffat find out about the tattoo?” I repeated. “Did she tell him about it?”
Philips shook his head. “Not likely. She’s had so many guys since me, I bet she doesn’t even remember my name. He saw it when I showed up for morning calisthenics. I came in a tank top.”
“You what?” I asked.
Philips shrugged. “And I lined up front and center.”
“Were you trying to get yourself shot?”
“And I started doing arm curls while he was counting out jumping jacks.”
While the rest of the men gathered in front of the truck, I held Philips back for another moment. “You really do want to die, don’t you?” I asked.
“You know what, Harris. I don’t care what happens,” Philips said. I looked into his eyes. The fight was gone. The mischief was gone as well. He looked tired.
Groaning deep in my gut, I let my friend go join the other men. There was no way both Philips and Moffat would survive this war. Sooner or later Moffat would find a way to kill Philips, and Philips would do nothing to protect himself, the stupid prick. There are a lot of ways to kill yourself. At least suicide by screwing was unique.
The mine-placer looked like an industrial vacuum cleaner. It had a twenty-foot telescoping hose with ribbing for flexibility. You could have rolled a tennis ball down the length of the hose, but a baseball would not fit.
The Corps of Engineers had painted foot-wide Xs all along the street. Our job was to roll the mine-placer to each location, press the nozzle over the axis of the X, and plant the mine. The mine-placer literally shot the explosive right through asphalt or concrete.
We worked in five-man teams. It was grueling work. The mine-placer sat on wheels, but fully loaded with fifty mines, the damned thing weighed about four hundred pounds. The Corps assigned us a stretch of posh neighborhood with a row of elm trees between the roads. Pushing that specking mine-placer up hills and over speed bumps damn near killed us. Once we got to the X, it took three men to hold the hose in place as it blasted the mines through the street. The blast struck with so much power that it bounced all three men in the air.
The blast both placed the mine and removed the painted X without cracking the pavement beneath. The only trace the mine-placer left was a clean spot of road where the mine now sat. As a kid I thought it was magic. It wasn’t. First the Corps of Engineers had used a sonic device to create a hollow spot under the surface of the concrete. The mines were made of liquid chemicals, which the mine-placer broke into a vapor so fine that it could pass through concrete. When we fired it off, the mine-placer blasted the atomized chemicals with so much power that it forced them through concrete, where they mixed to create a volatile, pressure-sensitive bubble. The chemicals washed away paint, grease, dirt, and anything else that got in the way into the ground.
“You think these are strong enough to kill one of those Mudders?” Skittles asked. My crew included Herrington, Boll, Skittles, and Thorpe. Boll and Herrington, both veteran Marines with more years in the Corps than me, worked quietly. Thorpe and Skittles, both three-year men who had joined the year before the orphanages were destroyed, kept up an endless string of commentary.
About a hundred yards away, Thomer and Philips led another crew. Thomer had a calming influence on
