“You will find in time, Major, that that is very true.” The Iranian motioned to the guards behind him. Two strong arms levered him upward from his chair; caught by surprise, Mack dropped the water, splashing it on his uniform and the floor. The two men behind his interrogator bristled, stepping forward quickly as if he had made a threat.
“An accident, I’m sure,” said the Iranian, holding them back with a subtle gesture of his hand. He looked at Knife the way an older relative might, as if he had known him all his life, as if he were comparing the man before him with a mental image of the child he had been. “I must attend to some business, Major Smith.”
The Iranian started to leave.
“What’s going to happen to me?” Smith asked.
“Possibly, you will be put on trial. If that happens. I will be your advocate.”
“Who are you?”
“You may call me Iman or Teacher. I am your advocate,” said the Iranian. He swept from the room, the two brown uniform and half a dozen Somalians in tow.
Goddamn faggot Iranians,” Melfi told Jackson. “Least they could have done was beat the shit out of us.”
“Yeah,” said Jackson.
He’d been shot in the leg and Gunny could see the pain hit him in waves. Worried Jackson might pass out, the sergeant continued to talk and joke, hoping to keep him from going.
“Stinkin’ pilot’s probably making a deal for us right now, what do you think?” said Gunny. “Bet we’ll get dancing girls and blow jobs.”
Jackson snorted. His eyes started to close.
Gunny jumped up from the bench. Ignoring the two Somalians standing near the basement steps, he grabbed Jackson by the shirt and shook him.
“Yo, stay with me, boy. Yo, you’re mine, shithead. Don’t go nowhere.”
“I’m okay, Gunny. I’m just tired.”
“Hey, you douche bags – get me a fucking doctor here, okay?” Gunny yelled to the men. “You faggot bastards, don’t you understand English? Hey! Hey!”
The door to the basement opened. Still holding Jackson, Gunny watched as a man in a long robe descended the stairs. It was the Iranian who had questioned them earlier. Several other Iranians and Somalians followed him down.
“Hey, Ayatollah, where the fuck is that doctor?”
The others rushed around the two Americans. One grabby Gunny; before he could slug the SOB, his arms were pinned behind him.
“We need a fucking doctor,” Melfi told the Imam.
“Your soldier will received what attention is available,” said the Iranian. He nodded, and two of his men lifted Jackson up and carried him away. The Marine’s head flopped to the side. “The wound does not appear serious.”
“I’ll tell you what. Give me a fuckin’ AK-47 and you can find out how serious it is.”
“Your false bravado is hardly appropriate.”
The Iman nodded again. Gunny was thrown to the floor. Before he could manage to get up, his arms and groin were pinned by heavy boots.
“This ain’t exactly Geneva Convention style,” growled Gunny.
“This ain’t Geneva, Sergeant,” said the Imam.
A man with a video-camera appeared from behind the cleric. A red light flashed on near the lens; Melfi spat and stuck his tongue out. The videographer continued for a few more moments, then snapped off the camera.
“Thank you, Sergeant,” said the Imam, seemingly amused. He said something to the others. One or two of the men grinned.
“You’re a real fuckin’ comedian. Ayatollah,” said Gunny as the others released him. He rolled up and sat on the floor, watching as the Imam walked back up the stairs. Most of the others followed. A young soldier came down with a tray of rice mush similar to what they’d given him a few hours before. Gunny took the bowl, made a show of sniffing it, even though he figured they wouldn’t bother poisoning him – they’d just shoot him and be done with it.
grub wasn’t as bad as some of the crap the Navy served on their aircraft carriers. He spooned it quickly into his mouth with his finger. Like before, the soldier waited for the bowl quietly a few feet away.
“Here ya go, Sport,” Gunny said, tossing the bowl back. The kid was skinny; he’d be easy to overpower. But he didn’t have a weapon, and the Somalians near the stairs did. Odds were they’d too jumpy to hold their fire, even if he had their comrade around the neck.
“You find a beer up there, you let me know, huh?” Gunny said as the soldier disappeared up the stairs.
Hell of a jail, he thought. Reminded him of the storage room in an old NCO club in Florida. Guys used to help one of the waitress rearrange the boxes downstairs.
[I]Ooo-la-la[/b].
The door above opened once more. A pair of black boots appeared, followed by the Somalians in their beatup sneakers.
Major Smith.
