“Why have you stopped?” the captain asked him.
“I’m stopped?”
Mongoose turned around, genuinely surprised. The sky had lightened sufficiently now that they could see each other’s expressions from ten paces away, and the Iraqi must have realized that his prisoner was not trying to trick him.
“We cannot stop,” he said. “You may be too tired to keep moving.”
“I’m really tired. I’ve been up since very early yesterday.”
“If you cannot come with me, I’ll kill you. I’ll say that the planes did it, or that you were trying to escape.”
“My legs feel like they’re going to fall off. Let me sit a moment, then I’ll try again. Or we can wait for the men you said were coming for us.”
Reluctantly, the Iraqi motioned that he could rest. Jangled as he slipped down, Mongoose’s arm screamed with pain. In a way, he welcomed it— the Iraqi was right; he was dangerously close to falling asleep.
Not even sleep, oblivion. His body had been through so much in the past twenty-four hours, in the past week, since the war began, in the past two months— he just didn’t have anything left. Sleep was a warm, beckoning sauna, waiting to sweat the fatigue from his body.
He had to survive. Sleep was as much the enemy, more the enemy, than the Iraqi major.
“Why did you leave the States?” Mongoose asked.
“I told you. I came home,” said the Iraqi. He lit a cigarette and inhaled deeply, savoring the nicotine.
“You married?”
“Yes. I have two children.”
“I just had my first. I was there when he was born. Pretty intense.”
The Iraqi took another long drag of his cigarette. He held his pistol straight down in his hand; it was a dull shadow against his leg.
“What are their names?” Mongoose asked.
“Names?”
“Your kids.”
“Amir and Sohrab. Boys.”
“Mine’s Robert. Robby. He’s three months old. Or three and a half by now. Almost four.”
The Iraqi didn’t answer. Maybe he was tired, too, or maybe he was thinking about the men who’d deserted him.
Or the ones lying dead a few hundred yards down the road.
I’m going to have to kill him, Mongoose realized. He’s not going to let me go when the Hogs come back. And he’s not going to surrender.
“Come on,” said the Iraqi. “Let’s move.”
“Won’t your headquarters people be coming soon? Can’t we just wait?”
“It’s better for you to walk. You have to keep blood circulating. Besides, you may go into shock.”
“I already am.” Mongoose tried to laugh.
“I don’t think so.”
“You a doctor?”
“I took an EMT class at the college.”
“Why’d you go to America for school if you were coming home?”
“I wasn’t coming home then.” The captain took one more serious breath from the cigarette, burning it down to its filter. He flicked it away just as the ember reached his fingertips. “I wanted to be an American.”
“Why?”
“I wanted to be rich. Come on, let’s go.”
“Are you going to give me back my letter?”
“Up!”
Mongoose had trouble getting up. The ligament in his knee had stiffened; the pain wasn’t much compared to his arm, but with the fatigue now it slowed him even further. The major was right— he had to keep moving or his muscles would just shut down.
“So I guess you didn’t get rich,” he told his captor as he started to walk.
“There are more important things.”
Maybe he didn’t shoot me because there are no bullets in his gun.
Mongoose had heard stories of troops not being issued ammunition for fear that they would revolt against Saddam. But were those stories true? And would an officer not be given ammunition?
Why else would he let me live? Because he’s a nice guy?
Because it was his duty to bring me back alive.
“You’re walking much too slowly.”
“I’m sorry. Everything’s tightening up on me. I slammed my knee when I parachuted. My body feels like it’s paralyzed. And my damn head is pounding like a jackhammer. Back of my neck.”
“Keep moving. It’s the best thing.”
“I’m trying. What made you change your mind?”
“About what?”
“About coming back here.”
The Iraqi didn’t answer.
“My son was born three months ago,” said Mongoose. Talking felt like taking a long sip of a very sweet drink, something sappier than a margarita. He was in shock, definitely. And he was so tired his mind was drifting into a dreamy unreality. He felt as if he might be on the verge of hallucinating. He felt as if he might be on the verge of dying.
And he had to kill this man if he was going to be rescued.
“I was there for his birth,” Mongoose said, feeling each thread of his consciousness slipping away.
“What was it like?” the captain asked.
What was it like?
Like something beyond comprehension. The moment standing there, seeing his head inching out, then all of a sudden bolting, almost flying forward.
Holding the baby, warm and sticky.
“I don’t know if I can describe it,” Mongoose told him. “It was very, surreal.”
As surreal as now, standing stock still in the middle of the Iraqi desert with a man who had a gun a few feet from his chest, pointed at the ground but easily raised?
It had to be empty or he’d be dead already.
Maybe not. But he’d never get the Iraqi to let him go or join him. For all the kindness he had shown, he had to be killed.
No. If he could overpower him he could just leave him here, make him walk away.
But what made him think they were coming back? By now the Air Force had probably concluded Mongoose was dead. They’d have seen the wreckage and not heard a radio. The Hogs had probably greased the trucks out of frustration and anger. They were mad because they had to give him up.
“I would have liked to see the birth of one of my children,” said the Iraqi.
“Maybe you will. The next one. Could I have some water? I really need a drink.”
The Iraqi reached to his belt for his canteen.
Now, Mongoose’s brain said. Now is your last chance. Jump him.
By the time he told himself it was a foolish move, he was already rolling on top of the enemy.
CHAPTER 51
Kathy was so drained she went right to bed after talking to the reporters. She drifted off right away, but then something stalled— her mind stuck and she couldn’t get to sleep. She lay under the blankets, thoughts plowing back and forth.
There had been plenty of sleepless nights over the past two months, and not because of the baby. Robby was really perfect.
What would it be like raising him alone? A boy without a father.
Kathy wrapped the blanket tighter around her shoulder, pushing herself against the bed. It was nearly impossible to clear her mind of those thoughts. Most of the tricks she used to get to sleep— thinking about good times in the past, or to come— just brought her husband back sharply.
She tried thinking of Paris. They’d never been there, but they had talked about going. If they had had a real honeymoon, that’s where they would have gone.
When they had a real honeymoon, she corrected herself. Jimmy had promised they would go soon. He had leave coming up, and there was a little bit of money saved. Hell, why not charge the credit cards up like everyone else?