Note: In the last chapter I forgot and put the death toll of Lena's IED incident at sixteen. It was supposed to be seven. I've since fixed that. Disclaimer: Pashto phrases are from google, and may be terribly misused.
He tells himself to stop thinking about her. But there's nothing to do but sweat and stare through a scope at normal people doing normal things. He can think about her or he can think about that grain of sand under the wristband of his watch that he can't seem to get rid of.
"You better not have a boner," says Carter after Tim shifts position one too many times.
"Then tell your mom to stop sending me nudes."
If they'd been on base the conversation would only have deteriorated from there, but smacking each other around on a hilltop isn't good for stealth, so they lapse into silence instead.
The sun came up, and with it came thoughts of coffee and snorting laughter. He likes that he can make her laugh. When he realizes that, once again, his thoughts have drifted back to Lena and he has neither the wish nor the energy to direct them elsewhere, he justifies it with the knowledge that at least it's better than falling asleep from boredom. At least he doesn't have to make up stories about the targets he watches. He tried making up stories about the rocks he'd propped his rifle on, but it just wasn't the same.
Tim wriggles. Somehow there's another rock poking into his ribs. He gets rid of one, and another appears, like a rock conspiracy. Maybe they didn't like his story. There might be a bug crawling on his calf or it could just be his leg hair itching. Tim squeezes his calves together. If there was a bug, it's dead. He looks away from his scope and over at Carter, who's zonked the fuck out like a rhino kicked him in the head. A glance at his watch says he still has an hour before it's his turn to sleep. Fuck. Christ he's bored.
The mission was supposed to be done after Lena visited Sharif, but they were ordered to stay in position. Their new objective is to wait for Faheen to show up for a meeting and grab him. Would sure be nice if that meeting could happen in the next decade.
Tim stretches, reaching his arms to the front and pointing his toes behind him, extending his body as far as possible before contracting back to look through the scope. The family is at dinner. Sharif's wife and sons are back, and there are others, maybe extended family or cousins or neighbors. Everyone is divided into two rooms, women in one, men in another. Whoever they are they came on foot, no one from Kabul. No sign of Faheen either.
Another half hour, and the sun is almost gone. Tim tips his head from side to side cracking his neck. A light catches in his peripheral vision. Headlights. He elbows Carter awake and puts his eye back on the scope.
"We got incoming."
"How many?"
"I see…" Tim starts counting, but suddenly the headlights turn off. The cars hadn't stopped. "Shit. There were at least two cars."
He's sure these are the guys they've been waiting for, but something's not right. This was supposed to be a meeting, so why are they sneaking up on the house?
There's a soft crackle on the radio. "You guys seein' this?"
Carter answers, "Smells like somethin' don't it?"
"Fishy like yo' mama's panties."
"Y'all makin' everything about my momma."
Tim nudges Carter. "Tell Clark to call it in."
He scans the road, trying to find where the cars would have stopped. There are too many trees and bushes in the way, and it's almost fully dark. He flicks on the IR sight and tries again. A bunch of green shapes are moving down the road about three hundred yards from the gates. They're on foot now and walk like they're carrying weapons.
"Hey, what do they want us to do?" Tim flips the safety off and lays his finger alongside the trigger.
Clark's voice comes back over the radio, "Did you see a blue jeep?"
"No, just trucks."
"Cap' says hold. Faheen has a blue jeep, remember?"
The green human blobs get closer, maybe two hundred yards. Tim turns the barrel half a degree. No one inside looks like they're expecting more company. Sharif's daughter is feeding bits of her dinner to a cat. Her mother is laughing and batting playfully at the woman sitting next to her.
The green figures edge closer.
She can't even be ten years old.
A hundred yards.
"Faheen isn't coming. Ask if they want us to grab one of these guys."
Carter and Clark whisper back and forth, and Clark whispers with the Captain back on base.
Eighty yards.
"He says hold, that –" There's another muffled voice from the radio sitting next to Clark. "She says get one of them. Make sure he can talk."
Tim can't hear them, but Clark and Pascal creep down the east ridge, quick and quiet. Marius and Kreisch go down from the west.
The green blobs are ducking through the grape vines, barely thirty yards from the front porch. One of the blobs waves and two groups split off to go around. Tim weaves back to the room where the women are. A blob raises his gun, aiming it at the window. It's dark outside, and light inside, so only the blob with the gun can see. Everyone in the house is blissfully unaware they're being surrounded, and the blobs are blissfully unaware of the rangers coming towards them. It's an ignorance that needs to last as long as possible, and the moment a bullet flies, everyone's illusions will be shattered, and the green blobs will turn their guns on the Rangers behind them.
Don't do it. He's not sure if he's talking to himself or the guy pointing his gun at the women sitting around the low dinner table.
In the end they both do it. The guy pulls the gun up a fraction and Tim fires. Lena only needs one of them to talk; didn't need to be that guy.
The shot is like someone yelling fire in a crowded room – complete pandemonium. Tim doesn't stay to watch though; he finds the other four Rangers, all distinguishable by their IR beacons, flashing lights overlapping the green human shape of them. Beside him Carter radios down enemy positions. Tim tracks a green blob sneaking towards the back of a flashing beacon. One pull on the trigger, and he's gone too. It's nice when they make it easy like that. There are more bursts of bright white gunfire down below.
"We got a guy by the side of the house." The radio crackles with Pascal's voice. "Don't need the rest."
Tim shoots another two blobs, and Clark, Marius, and Kreisch pick off the rest.
"Carter, Gutterson, get down to the house. Got a bird coming." Finally.
As they're sliding down the hill, there's an explosion near the side of the house where Pascal was. Carter drops to the ground, Tim skidding down to lie next to him.
"Guys what was that?"
For a heart-stopping second there's no response, and then, "Funny story, dude just ate a grenade. Allah ho akbar! Whooooooo Pfffffffff!" Pascal laughs and continues to make little exploding sounds.
"And the rest of you dickheads?"
"We're good."
Carter's forehead hits the dirt in relief. "Fuck."
o.O.o
Lena doesn't share their sense of relief. She steps out of the helicopter and meets them at the porch where they dragged all the bodies into a line, looking around at each Ranger expecting him to produce someone for interrogation.
"Punch line is they're all dead," says Tim.
Her face goes stony. "You couldn't have just shot one of them in the leg or something?"
"Funny thing about legs, they still bleed if someone shoots you in them. They got arteries."
"Well, you could have –"
Tim holds up his rifle, annoyed. "I can shoot down a helicopter with this thing. You know what a bullet from this does to a human body?" He points at the line of bodies on the gravel. "There's a row of them over there if you don't."
"Lena," Clarence steps forward, but she shrugs off the hand he puts on her arm, "We can check their faces, find out who they are. It's not a dead end." Tim stops himself from pointing out that not all of them have faces left, or in the case of the guy with the grenade, anything at all.
Lena looks about to argue, still fuming, and there's a flare of anger in Tim's chest. She had quick trip in a helicopter, whereas he'd spent three days and four nights on top of a rocky hill, stones digging into his skin and legs going numb from lying on his stomach on hard ground. He's the one who had to make the choice between killing a man and keeping that same man alive knowing it would mean giving him a chance to kill his brothers in arms. Then, suddenly, her anger deflates, whooshing out with a breath. She meets his eyes with a curt, "I'm sorry," and walks towards the house. Tim and Clarence follow.
"Who are all these people?" Lena asks, nodding at the guests still sitting in the living room. They're quiet, the adults sitting in a loose ring around the children. Tim feels another stab of anger. They're soldiers, not child-killers, and it was the Rangers who just saved them all from being killed by their own people.
"Dinner guests."
"Let's get them in another room. I want to question everyone separately." She turns back around, and takes another slow breath. "Please."
"You got another translator? This is a lot of people."
"Just me and Clarence." She seems determined rather than daunted. Fuck, they're gonna be here all night. Tim silently kisses sleep goodbye. Lena turns back to the huddled group, and starts speaking in Pashto. There's some frowning. A woman without a hijab issuing orders appears to ruffle a few feathers. Tim doesn't care. He just wants this night done as fast as possible. "Clarence, we'll talk to the men first. Would you mind asking the questions? Doubt they want to talk to the heathen tart without a headscarf." Lena sounds uncharacteristically bitter.
The Englishman nods, and waves the first man towards a smaller room to the side. Through the door, Tim can see a desk, Sharif's study maybe.
The women and children begin filing towards the back of the house, to the room they'd been using for dinner, but Lena halts one of the women with a hand on her elbow. "Parisa chere day?"
The woman looks around then says the same thing to another woman, whose eyes go wide. "Parisa!"
Lena says something to them in Pashto before turning to Tim. "Keep them here."
"What –" he starts, but she's already out the back door yelling "Parisa!" and leaving him to deal with a bunch of panicked women shouting in Pashto at him. Clarence is in the other room with one of the men, so all he and the rest of them can do is try to tell them, in English and with lots of gesturing, that they just need to go to the back room and wait. But now the men have overheard whatever it was Lena and the two women were talking about and have joined the yelling, and Tim wonders what is it now that could possibly be more upsetting to them than the rest of this fucking night has been already, and now they have two groups yelling at them in what may as well be fucking Greek for all anyone is understanding each other, and Tim grabs Clark by the shoulder and points at the closed study door where Clarence has started interrogating the first man.
"Go fuckin' get him and tell him to calm these people do –"
"TIM!" It's a piercing shriek, and now it's Tim's turn to panic, as he shoves past everyone and bolts out the back door towards her voice, leaving the others to figure out the mess of angry people inside.
"TIIIM!" His brain fumbles. She's alive enough to scream, and her voice is closer, not father away… He finds her on the back porch bent over something on the ground.
The something on the ground turns out to be a little girl. Shit. Shit fucking shit. Lena's down to an undershirt, and the white button-down she'd had on over it is now pressed to the child's torso and soaked in blood. The girl is unconscious, and there's blood on her mouth.
"Shit." He turns back to the house and yells, "Clark!" before kneeling down beside Lena.
"She's alive." Lena's voice is shaky. She looks up at him, wide-eyed, and stricken as if willing him to tell her the girl will stay that way.
"What happened?" he asks instead, leaning with his ear to the girl's mouth. Her breathing is wet and strained.
"I think she went to find the kittens."
"No, I mean –"
"Oh, right, shit. It looked like she was shot."
"Where exactly?" He doesn't want her to lift up the shirt to show him.
"The.. Her lung? In the right side."
Clark comes out, sees them bent down, and hurries over. "Jesus fuckin' Christ."
"Think it's her lung," Tim says.
With Lena still keeping pressure on her chest, Clark rolls her, fingers pressing on her back. "It didn't come out the other side." That means a hollow point, and a great deal more damage.
Lena looks up, "Is that bad?"
"Yeah, it's bad. Take your hands off."
Lena looks at Clark like he's gone batshit and doesn't move, so Clark shoves her hands away and rolls the girl halfway onto her right side. "Hold her there," he orders, and Tim complies. How does a child have so much blood? Then he hands a flashlight to Lena. "Hold that here. Don't move." The light shakes a bit, but it's good enough.
Clark takes out a pack of plastic tubing and shoves one end into the wound. A stream of blood immediately starts making its way out and onto the concrete under them. "Hold that," Clark says to Tim, and when Tim's hand is holding the tube in place, he whips out a banana bag and inserts an IV into her arm. "Keep ahold of that and take the bag." Again, Tim does as bid, and Clark carefully hoists the girl up. She looks tiny and flimsy like a ragdoll, and pale, way too pale.
There's a whole new round of panic when they walk through the house, tube leaking a bloody line across the floor and Tim trailing after with the IV bag, but Clark ignores everyone, intent on getting to the helicopter as quickly as possible. He and Kreisch will ride back with her. After they've gone, Lena turns to him and sweeps her arm toward the row of bodies, "I changed my mind. Thanks for killing them," and stomps back through the front door.
It hadn't even crossed her mind that it could have been one of their bullets.
Inside the house is still pandemonium, and Sharif and his wife – the girl must have been their daughter – are screaming at Lena, who is still covered in blood and looks close to snapping. He doesn't need a translator for what they're saying, but Clarence tells him anyways.
"They are saying American soldiers murdered their child."
"She's not dead." Yet. "Also, she was shot with a hollow point. We don't use that kind of ammunition."
An expression of relief passes over the other man's face at that last statement, as if he'd been afraid the bullet had been American, and Tim's anger makes a tenth round comeback. But Clarence cuts in over the yelling, probably relaying what Tim just said. They shut up at least.
Then Lena's talking, taking the chance to speak before they can start haranguing her again. The only thing he catches is "Faheen", the name of the doctor. There's immediately a lot of headshaking and protesting, but Lena barrels on, brows pulled tight in rising frustration. Sharif turns to Clarence, gesturing towards Lena and babbling rapidly as if he could make her see reason. Clarence says something, dashing whatever hope for support Sharif thought he might get, and Sharif goes back to trying to plead with Lena instead.
Whatever he's saying falls on deaf ears, and in a move Tim knows is insulting, she turns instead to Sharif's wife, still speaking in Pashto and gestures out the front door where the helicopter had taken off minutes ago. The Afghan woman, already in tears, looks to her husband, but everyone's attention snaps back to Lena when she yells one short phrase – again something about Faheen – and lifts the front of her shirt.
About half the room flinches back in disgust, and there's an outburst of shock and anger at what they see as indecent exposure. But Sharif's wife, along with Tim and Clarence and the other Rangers, stare at Lena's bared torso.
There's a thick, uneven rope of mottled skin winding from the bottom right side of her rib cage across the front third of her stomach, a scar that hasn't aged enough to turn fully white. Carter gives him a look. The fuck is going on? Tim shakes his head. Fuck if I know.
Lena no longer shouts, but there's a desperate intensity to her voice as she points to herself and then once more outside before pulling her shirt down.
This time Sharif's wife doesn't look to her husband, just whispers briefly in Pashto to Lena. Lena nods, gives a short reply, and turns to Clarence. "I'm going to photograph the bodies outside. We can let everyone go home." Then to Tim, "Are we allowed to bring Sharif and his wife to Bagram with us?"
"I'll radio it in. Shouldn't be a problem."
Lena jerks her head once in acknowledgement. "Thanks. I'll be outside."
He makes the call. The Captain gives permission for the Sharifs to come back with them on the helicopter. Then Tim spends about ten minutes staring at the radio in his hand, going back and forth in his head trying to decide if he wants to talk to Clark. The little girl – Parisa – had been breathing when they carried her onto the helicopter, but the puddle of blood on the back porch and the trail through the house hadn't been small. He's not sure he wants to know. On one hand, there's relief from wondering, but if the news is bad, then he has to tell her parents, which means telling Lena. Tim puts the radio down. What they know or don't know doesn't change the outcome, only whether or not he has to face it right now.
Tim steps outside, needing a break from the accusing stares of everyone still gathered in the house. He doesn't know enough Pashto to defend himself, and even if he did they wouldn't believe him. As long as it was an American, if the girl dies, they get paid.
Lena's standing away from the bodies, back towards him, stock still and barely visible in the moonlight. He wants to know about the scar on her ribs. It's curiosity plain and simple, and he feels like a hypocrite for not having a different motive for wanting to ask. Tim gives his eyes time to adjust to the darkness, once again trying to figure out what he ought to do. Just cause we don't like talking to you people doesn't mean we're heartless. Kelsey's words come back to him, but he's not sure if it's coming from the devil on his shoulder or the angel. There's what he wants and what he's afraid he ought to do instead. Lena's not big on touching, so maybe she's not big on company when she's upset. But she visited him in the hospital, so… Tim rubs a hand down his face, still looking at Lena for some hint as to what she wants. All he sees is a rigid, taught rod. Fuck, women are complicated. No we're not; you people are just dipshits. God. Kelsey always hated it when he said that. It's not like you fuckers aren't just as bad.
Since he doesn't know what he's supposed to do, he does what he wants to do. She doesn't turn around when he approaches, and he'd made sure to drag his feet on the gravel so as not to surprise her.
Now that he's up close Tim can hear her breathe. It's slow, or tries to be, but ends up slightly halting instead. Her arms are crossed tightly over her chest, fingers gripping her biceps, but it's not cold out. Kelsey's voice in his head is quiet. They stand like that for a bit, her trying to breathe normally and him unsure of what to do next.
Lena breaks the silence first. "Can I help you?" Her voice is tight, too controlled and too high.
"You good?" he asks. It's the wrong question, definitely a stupid one.
Abruptly, she falls into a squat, both palms jammed into her eyes. She doesn't breathe at all for a moment until he hears a sharp heave. Shit.
Tim drops down next to her. He decides putting an arm around her shoulders would be presumptuous, so instead he sits up against her, side pressed to side, one shoulder just behind hers. She doesn't lean away, but nor does she lean in, and Tim stays still, waiting. She smells like girl – soap and shampoo, and Tim is grateful that her nose is too stuffed up to smell him – sniper marinated in a ghillie suit for three days.
There are few more choked sobs, and then a forced, "Jesus Christ," as her fingers dig into her eyes. It looks like she's trying to poke them out. "I didn't used to be like this."
"It's fine you know." He means it.
"Uh huh, cause all you boys are out here carrying on like babies." She swipes violently at her nose before wiping it on the edge of her shirt and snorting the rest back.
"We're used to it."
"Kids?" Her eyes are wide staring ahead.
"Yeah," he says, "sometimes."
Lena nods numbly, still staring straight ahead. "I hate this place." They're silent a bit longer, and then Lena sinks the rest of the way down to sit on the gravel with him. "You got any water?"
Tim pulls out a canteen and hands it over. After taking a few long gulps, Lena dumps some on the edge of her shirt and uses it to clean her face. The scar is just visible against the skin of her stomach.
He's not used to asking; he's used to being asked. "That looks deep." He points towards the spot under her shirt where the scar is. It's indirect. She can answer how she chooses. Almost unconsciously Lena's hand comes up to rub over it.
"Got in a fight with a Humvee door." Her eyes are still too shiny and the smile doesn't quite catch all the way.
"Oh yeah? What did the poor door ever do to you?"
"Tried to gut me."
"Well, I guess it deserved what it got then."
"It's pretty dead." She laughs wetly. "Here," Lena holds up her left hand, pointing to a ring on her middle finger, "this is a piece of it."
"Well that's one way to get revenge."
"Meyer said it's like a bullet," she explains, "If you wear the bullet that shot you then you won't get shot again."
He's still carrying a piece of shrapnel under his collar bone somewhere, and keeps getting shot, so it sounds like a load of shit, but he doesn't say that. "Meyer?"
"Yeah, he's the one who pulled me out." Puzzle pieces he hadn't thought to look for fall into place. Shit.
"How come you never said you were in that convoy?"
A shrug. "Doesn't matter, does it?"
He mulls that over. It should matter. Whoever sent her back to track down Faheen should have known better than to let her be involved in something so personal. But then, that's all war is to anyone in it. You don't fight for your country, especially in a place like this where it's pointless; you fight for the guy next to you.
"And he gave you a ring?" Tim tries to imagine the awkward, scared private giving a woman like Lena a ring. He pictures her accepting it and frowns.
"No, no he just gave me the piece. I have a friend who's a jeweler who made it into a ring."
Tim reaches for the canteen and her hand and pours it over her ring, scraping off the dried blood with his thumbnail. There's a design etched into it he can't see. "What's on it?"
"A roman numeral seven."
"Why that?"
"So I remember." Lena takes back her hand, twisting the ring around her finger. "Seven for the seven who died. I told myself I can take it off when I fix this."
People dead doesn't sound fixable. He's thinking of the right thing to say when they hear the far off thumping of helicopter blades. Lena stands, brushing herself off, for all the good it does. She looks a mess.
"Can I see the water again?" Tim passes it to her and pushes to his feet. Lena dumps the rest of the canteen over her face and wipes off the excess with her hands. She starts towards the house, then stops, turning back to face him and says stiffly, "Sergeant, I'd appreciate it if you didn't tell anyone about this…even…" she waves at the house where the rest of his team is, "not anyone."
"It's Tim, ma'am."
She hiccups. "It's Lena, jackass."