The Bee Killer
Different day—Same oven. Scorching heat, Kabul style. The sun, a
blood splat, rose. Soldiers repositioned in disappearing shadows. Night-vision
goggles had transformed them into patriotic vampires in the service of Uncle
Sam. The enemy couldn’t shoot what they couldn’t see. Great plan until the ride
no-showed. Three of the soldiers wore scars from Muslim bullets. Seven had
pulled messed up bodies to choppers. Nick and Butternut were newbies. They
still thought death came for others. Drill Sergeant told ‘em to use their
training to stay alive. It was the unexpected stuff scared Nick the
most. He worked himself up from a crouch and unzipped. Everyone heard him
splashing the dust into a mud-puddle.
O’Connor thought, Wet pants and livin’ beat dry pants and
dyin’.
“Jeez … can’t believe I hada take a leak.”
“Don’t worry about it; first time oudda the wire. Piss in the
moonlight; shoot in the sunlight. You gotta get your blood type marked on your
boots. Then let’s make sure you got a dog tag around the neck and one on the
boot. Little things keep your ass unrefrigerated.”
O’Connor liked the kid. He was older than O’Connor but he’d be a
kid—Nicky-New-Guy—until he was baptized with bad intentions. War gore
splattered on the ol’ face usually did the trick: urban renewal for the soul. No room for kindness.
The pick-up point was half a block north. Plan called for a ride
back to chow and shut-eye. If no ride showed before the darkness vanished, it could get bad. He glanced at the other eleven infidels
muttering—“fuck”.
Sarge was thinking. Mission had required one bomb-maker to be put out of business,
and Military Intelligence fingered the Islamic
rat and the hole he called home. Things had gotten nasty when
they kicked a door and found no rodent, just women undressed enough
to really piss-off the homeowner. The soldiers had bolted
for their ride with the gentleman shaking his fist at them; Muslims killed
male eyes peeking at their women. O’Connor squeezed
his ankle. He figured a medic could take his pulse through his boot. Kabul
doors usually gave before bone; but not this time.
“Yo Connor. My man. That some kick. You A-okay in my book dog.”
Tee Pee stared through O’Connor. Shee’it … that low life A-rab didn’t know
shit from Allah for a sec,” Tee Pee chuckled. “All I’m a-sayin’ is ya
did good.”
O’Connor put weight on his foot. Pain put the brakes on
talking. “Damn ride would be nice. This leg killin’ me.”
“Ah hell … you see
that Mu-se-lum? He hada look o’ pure surprise under that beard.
Yessirree.” Tee Pee started singing, “Been in the desert ona camel got no name,
it felt good to be—” A voice groaned for Tee Pee to
shut it.
Pain pulled O’Connor’s mouth into a tight line. “Jesus … we should
write them words down. Sing your way onto American Idol. You
gonna remember me, pal … when you’re
one of those people?”
“Beggin’
your pardon, Connor. I ain’t never forgettin’ yo’ white ass. I’m
a feelin’ it in my bones though. Damn too quiet for my taste. Natives fixin’ to
make things interestin’.” He looked at the windows. “You kick the doh good
though … You know how it is … can’t give the infidels wood. Hell, I’m
not so sure I could get mine up with a crane. This place just takes it out of
ya. Now they riled some to the point I could hear a spider choken’ ona sand
flea a mile ‘way. Ain’t supposed to be this quiet atall—”
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