“This is Barbarian. Request Matador Actual, if available.”
A moment of uncertainty. Then she realized that would be her. She pressed the button, waited for the sync. “This is Matador Actual. Over.”
“Stand by. Over.”
A new voice, one she recognized instantly. “This is Barbarian Actual. Are you in my sea cabin, Commander? Over.”
“This is, um, Matador Actual. Now. That is correct. Sir. Over.”
“Congratulations. A message is on its way. You’re joining my task group.”
“This is Matador. Um, congratulations to you, too. We heard about the promotion.”
“For the duration only. Was the Q-89 upgrade completed? Are you ready for alfa sierra whiskey operations?”
“The sonar upgrade’s done. Assuming we pass FAST and machinery tests, which I have no reason to assume we won’t… yes, we’ll be ready for ASW operations.” A moment too late, she recalled the dome leaks. Well, the supervisor had said they were fixed. “Though we don’t have a great loadout for antisubmarine work. Details via reporting-in message. Over.”
“Do that, but we’re all short-stroked on logistics. You know about the glitches with the production lines back in the States.… I did get a couple extra fish broken out for you tomorrow. And some of the new hypervelocity projectiles for the five-inchers. Make sure you have full food and fuel loadout. Commandeer any bagged rice, cabbage, cigarettes, and seven six two and fifty cal you can lay your hands on. Over.”
Rice? Cabbage? Oh, for the Korean units. “Um, roger. Bagged rice, cabbage, cigarettes, small-arms ammo. I’ll get Hermelinda and Ollie on that, over.”
“There’s fighting ahead. TF 76 will be in the thick of it. Oh, and I sent you some Army point defense. For that keyhole problem. But… can I depend on you? Are you ready for sea? Over.”
For just the fraction of a moment she considered telling him they were undermanned. They needed a bottom strip and repaint. Their combat systems software was half-done and untested. Now she was taking the risks, not he.
“Yes, Admiral,” she said firmly, pressing the button with a suddenly desperately itchy finger. “We are ready for sea.”
4
The Booger Squad had been marching all night. Up and down the rolling hills, through dead, crackling marsh grass. Splashing through cold water. Under icy clouds, buffeted by gusts of rain and bitter wind. Breaking into a staggering, lurching double time whenever they emerged onto the beach, to the crash of Atlantic waves. The shortest man, at the end, kept staggering, then catching himself just before he fell. Occasionally one of the others would drop back and pull him forward. Shouting into his ear, “Keep going, Ramos! You gotta keep up, man. Grab the drum if you have to. Let us drag you.”
Hector Ramos shook himself back into consciousness. Tried to remember where he was. What he was. To keep his rifle pointed toward the threat. But he kept sliding off into sleep. Staggering, losing his grip on the ropes that lashed him to their shared misery, their black, unendurable, hellish burden.
Back to the Line.
The long low building is set back from the highway behind chain link topped by sparkling concertina wire. This early the mist from the bay lies over it, softening the angles of blue-and-white-painted concrete block, cooling towers, and boiler smokestacks in the main plant and the by-products plant. The morning light plays in bronze and rose and lavender through the white plumes of smoke and steam the exhaust fans expel, rising toward a light blue sky where seagulls soar and wheel.
But a disquieting stench of burnt feathers, manure, and ammonia breathes through the old Kia’s heater as seventeen-year-old Hector nears the plant. A whine begins under the hood. When he turns the wheel to swing into the lot, a vicious knocking throbs. The guard ducks to peer in, then waves him on. A sparkly rosary and a laminated picture of a dark-haired, sloe-eyed girl sway from Hector’s rearview. He heads for the corner that gets shade from one of the few trees. He doesn’t have the money to fix the car, or the credit to buy a better one, so he just parks, and hoists the rusty door back into place so it can latch, if not actually lock.
He follows the other arriving shift employees through the front guard shack and out back to receiving. He stalks tensely up the ramp into the rear loading area, past the idling line of trucks, nodding to Sazi and Fernando. Checking out of the corners of his eyes for Mahmou’, but the Arab isn’t in yet. Relieved, Hector sighs and punches in with his employee card.
The Line starts here, though it’s still early, so it isn’t moving yet. Dozens of trucks wait grille to tailgate, engines rumbling, diesel-smoke drifting up to join the mist. The drivers slouch by the ramp, jeans sagging on their hips, smoking and talking. They’re Peruvian, Salvadoran, Mexican. There were Haitians here when Hector hired on, but they made trouble over wages and one day were all gone. Desaparecido, though probably not in the way the Salvadorans mean. Yellow plastic modules flecked with curling down are stacked on the tractor trailers, twenty to twenty-five birds to a cell. A forklift will slide them off onto the conveyor. Hector walks past the door to his own cage, past José, his foreman, who’s studying a seagull with a broken wing, which is watching him hopefully from below on the loading dock.
But Hector doesn’t go in yet. Instead he heads back to the break room and puts the bag lunch his mother packed into the fridge. He fidgets in front of the drink machine, studying prices, then the buttons. Numbers puzzle him. He can add, but it takes time. If someone interrupts, he has to start over. The TV’s on. A fat white man with a comb-over is talking about Mexicans. They sneak over the border and anchor themselves with babies. They draw relief and don’t work. They sell drugs, rape, and kill. The camera pans to his audience. They’re chanting something Ramos can’t make out, shaking placards. The television shows a wall in a desert. Hector recalls that desert, but he doesn’t remember a wall.
The news changes to the war. Hector watches explosions, aircraft. He pushes sleeves up on thin arms. Dark, raised scars, like vines of poison ivy on a tree, run from the backs of his hands to above the elbows.
He’s pushing coins into the machine one at a time, counting aloud, when another teen bounces in, bony, wiry, dark, with high cheekbones and a tattoo on the side of his neck. “Ay, Hector!” Mahmou’ calls. “How is that hot little Mirielle? You get in her sweet pants yet?”
Hector flinches. The machine whirs, thunks, and disgorges a can. Almost too fast to see, the other boy snatches it. Hector lunges, but the other holds it away teasingly. He takes a long swallow, then upends it over a plastic-lined trash bin and lets it gurgle away. Flips him the empty, and slaps his back.”Got to be faster next time, ’migo. That is what I am training you for, the speed. You are not fast, you will not last. Not in the Cage.”
Outside a bell clangs long and loud, echoing. Motors begin powering up. A metallic crashing begins, underlain by an electric hum. When Hector steps out of the break room he has to jump back to avoid the polished prongs of a forklift. He hurries across gray-painted concrete, following Mahmou’, who pulls a pair of nylons from his back pocket and draws them up over his hands.
In the Hanging Room a long chain of stainless hooks sways, tinkling faintly, almost like music. Dozens of upside-down U’s of heavy, polished stainless metal, each just long enough to trap a man’s hand within. The chain passes through a vertical slot in the concrete wall to their right. Slot, wall, and floor are spattered with a brownish-black crust inches thick. The kill lines run faster than the eviscerating lines, two lines diverging into four, with the kill lines at 180 units a minute and the eviscerating lines at 90 or so. Hector stamps heavy steeltoes, testing his footing. The men fit goggles over their eyes. They pull on thin gloves, or, like Mahmou’, women’s nylons over their lower arms.