Gunny tried to keep his expression blank as Smith was prodded down to the basement. Unlike Gunny and Jackson, Smith was wearing a set of manacles on his hands and legs. He walked slowly, then stood at attention a few feet away. Neither man spoke as the soldiers turned back and went up the stairs.
The instant the door closed, Smith collapsed on the floor.
“Jesus, Major, you all right?” said Gunny, not quite in time to keep Smith’s head from slamming on the hard- packed dirt.
“Yeah, I’m okay,” said Smith. His eyes were closed. “Where the fuck are we?”
“Jail, I think,” said Gunny.
“Upstairs looks like a school or something. We still in Somalia?”
“They had us in the back of a van the whole time,” Gunny told him. “I’m not sure. I think so. We were headed west, maybe northwest, I figure. Near the coast, but not on it. some Iranian guy’s in charge. Raghead.”
“The Imam,” said Smith.
“Looks like Khomeni,” said Gunny.
“This guy’s our lawyer or something,” Smith groaned. “Or he’s pretending to be, so we trust him.”
“Lawyer?”
Smith pulled himself forward, finally opening his eyes. “Ribs are killing me,” said the major apologetically.
“Yeah. They beat you up?”
“Haven’t touched me.”
“Us neither. Strange. They must be scared.”
“No. They’re going to put us on trial. They don’t want us hurt before then. We’re propaganda.” Smith glanced toward the two Somalians standing at the foot of the stairs. They were holding South African 9mm BXPs, Uzi-like weapons with telescoping stocks and air-cooled muzzles. “What happened to Jackson?”
“They took him upstairs. He got shot in the leg.”
“How about you?”
“Head hurts like shit,” said Gunny he pointed to the scrape on his scalp where he’d been nicked by a bullet. “Otherwise only thing that smarts is my pride.”
Gunny told Smith how Jackson got hit and went down right after they were spotted. Gunny toss a smoke grenade and went to get him. Somewhere around there another grenade went off, tossed by Jackson or the Somalians, he wasn’t sure. Either it was a concussion grenade or a dud; in any event, all it had done was slam the sergeant to the ground. When he tried to get up he found half a dozen Somalians in his face.
“I guess I got shot somewhere along the way,” added Gunny. “Lucky for me it hit my head and bounced off. Hit me anywhere else and it would have gone right through.”
“Let me see it.”
Melfi bent down and let Smith examine the wound, even thought Jackson had already said the bullet had only grazed him. The major agreed, describing it as a the sort of red singe a barber’s razor might make.
“What happens next, you figure?” Gunny asked.
“Take us to where the trial is.”
“If we done get rescued first,” said the sergeant. “Or bust out first.”
Smith gave him a weak smile. “Yeah, we’ll just have to bust out.”
“I got a knife in my buckle,” whispered Gunny.
The major didn’t understand at first. Finally he nodded. “My radio,” he told Gunny. “Somebody should have got the signal.”
“They’ll come for us,” said Melfi. “Don’t worry, Major. Hell, Jackson and me are expendable. But you’re a fuckin’ officer. You bet your ass they’re going to come and get you back.”
Smith groaned in reply, then sank to the floor, starting to nod off.
Mack fought to keep his eyes open. The basement smelled like a cross between a biology lab and the kitchen of an Indian restaurant that hadn’t been cleaned in a week. Knife held his elbow right below his injured rib, pushing it in to keep himself from puking.
A medical attendant – the man clearly had not been a doctor – had roughly taped the rib after prodding him harshly a few time upstairs. He’d also offered some painkillers, but Smith hadn’t dared to take them.
Knife knew he should be coordinating strategy or planning what they would and wouldn’t say with the Marine sergeant. But the pain and his fatigue and the stench were overwhelming. Thoughts flew in and out of his head like dreams. He saw himself running at the two men near the stairs with their guns, saw their bullets tearing him apart. It might be a relief.
The door opened. He saw three men coming down, carrying a fourth. They seemed to float over him.
The fourth man was dumped on the ground.
It was Jackson. Melfi went to him as the others retreated back upstairs.
“I feel better,” Jackson was saying on the ground. Sergeant Melfi helped him upright. “They gave me morphine. I don’t feel shit.”
“You fuckin’ druggie,” said Melfi. He flashed a grin to Mack, letting him know it was a joke.
