Charles Sheehan-Miles

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Republic: Chapter Three (continued)

Republic

Charles Sheehan-Miles

Chapter Three

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Chapter Three (continued)

Turville could smell and hear it long before they arrived. Crammed in the back of the truck at the end of a long drive, he couldn’t see much, but the sounds and smells were more than enough. A roar rose from the still burning buildings, and acrid black smoke filled the truck, burning his eyes and throat. He saw flashing blue and red lights in the darkness, heard sirens and the sound of a single gunshot.

The truck jerked to a stop. Turville peered out between the canvas panels, then gasped and jerked his head back, blinking. On her back in the street, in a pool of light cast by one of the other trucks, lay a beautiful redhaired young girl around sixteen, her athletic body in a flowered and bloodstained sundress. She had no legs, and the ground all around her was soaked in a pool of blood.

“Off the truck! Off the truck!” The first sergeant waved his arms at them, directing the company to line up near the truck.

Turville didn’t move until someone clapped him on the shoulder: Corporal Meigs, his lanky, African American fire team leader. “Move it, Turdville.”

He jerked, and then climbed out of the bed of the truck, unable to take his eyes off the dead girl. He was followed by the rest of the platoon, someone muttering, “Holy shit, look at that,” behind him.

“Second platoon, over here,” shouted Sergeant O’Donnell, a wisp of hair falling out from under her helmet. The platoon gathered around her, no more than a hundred yards from the burning Crystal City Mall, just across the highway from the Pentagon. “Fall in.”

Turville obeyed the order, standing in his rank to the left of Meigs. O’Donnell stood in front of the platoon, face set in grim lines.

“Listen up,” she said. Turville had a hard time looking away from the body. “If you need to puke, go ahead, that’s fine. No one will think any worse of you. But here’s the deal: this won’t be the only body you are will see in the next few days. Don’t let it interfere with your job. Understand?”

No one responded. Most of the men looked anywhere but at the body, or, for that matter, at Sergeant O’Donnell.

“They’ve got about a thousand rescue workers out here helping clear the wreckage and find people. Our job is simple: along with the rest of the battalion, we provide perimeter security for the area. The LT will brief us shortly on our positions, so just stay here and stay calm. Got it?”

No one replied.

“Rest,” she ordered. The members of the platoon sat down on the sidewalk. Most of them lit cigarettes. One of the older sergeants took out a deck of cards and started a game of solitaire on the sidewalk.

Meigs muttered under his breath. Turville couldn’t catch the words. Their squad leader did, however. He shoved Meigs’s shoulder and said, “Shut up. She’s a hell of a good platoon sergeant, a damn site better than you, worm.”

“Roger, Sarge,” Meigs replied. He ducked his head and looked away.

Turville looked up at the sky. It was a clear night, but the smoke and lights obscured most of his view of the stars. All right, damn it. This is what he’d enlisted for, to help protect his country. Here was his chance. Don’t think about it. Just don’t think about it. But his thoughts kept returning to the girl.

Meigs lay on his back, his rucksack a makeshift pillow. “Don’t let it get to you, Turville. This is normal—rush all over the place in a big hurry, then sit around waiting. Good chance to take a nap.”

“You can nap with… that?” Turville said, indicating the girl’s body thirty feet away.

“One thing you gotta learn: take every chance you get to sleep. You won’t get many.”

Turville tried to close his eyes. It was pointless. He lit a cigarette and looked around, then shifted position, uncomfortable sitting on the ground.

He sat up.

“Hey, Sarge,” he said to the squad leader. “Can we at least cover the body with a tarp or something? Show her some respect?”

The squad leader, a bulky blonde man with striking blue eyes, replied in a biting tone. “Good idea, Turville. Why don’t you use your shelter half?”

Turville didn’t understand what their problem was; seemed like the non-commissioned officers in his squad had taken a disliking to him without even giving him a chance. “You’ll cover me with the supply sergeant?”

“Yeah, Turville, I will.”

Turville removed his shelter half from where it was tied underneath his rucksack. The shelter half was a large piece of green canvas. When joined with a partner’s shelter half, it would make a functional tent. Turville untied it, not thinking about what he was about to do, then walked toward the body, watching his step.

Jesus. She was exquisite: red hair splayed about, green eyes wide open, the dress gathered around her breasts; she looked like somebody’s prom date. It was creepy, looking at someone so beautiful lying there dead. Her skin was ivory pale.

Turville grimaced. Idiot. Of course her skin is pale. Her blood was run out all over the street, soaking the ground so that it looked black. He wanted to cry, looking at her. Could have been his sister, or one of the girls he’d wished he’d dated in high school. With a snap, he spread the shelter half as far as it would stretch, and then laid it over the girl.

It settled on top of her, obscuring the contours of her body. Turville stared at it, then turned to walk back to his squad.

Meigs muttered something to one of the other NCOs, then laughed out loud. Turville felt his face burn and didn’t meet their eyes. He sat back down and pretended to sleep. Meigs was right about that: in the Army you had to learn to sleep anywhere.

Ten minutes later, Sergeant O’Donnell and the lieutenant returned. O’Donnell looked at the body and nodded in approval.

“Fall in,” ordered O’Donnell.

The men and women in the platoon jumped to their feet.

The lieutenant didn’t speak, his eyes going from soldier to soldier in the platoon. He was still new—someone told Turville he’d just finished college and this was his first assignment. Looked like it, the way he was rocking on his heels, his hands clenching and unclenching.

“Okay, here’s the deal,” he said, his voice high pitched, “We’re to provide perimeter security for the search and rescue operations. What that means is, we don’t let civilians into the area. Any we find, we get them to medical personnel and law enforcement regardless of whether they think they need help. The entire area between the Pentagon and the mall is closed to civilians. The triage tent is two blocks over there, next to the mall. I’ve got tourist maps of the area here for the squad leaders; you can use them to orient yourselves. Our positions are marked.”

He pointed with his right hand.

“Now, there has been some looting. The word is caution. Each man will be issued a loaded magazine, but you are not—I repeat not—to lock and load your weapons without approval. Everyone understand? I will hold the squad leaders responsible for enforcing this.

“Next: this wasn’t just a single bomb. About an hour after the initial bomb, a couple more went off, killing a bunch of paramedics and firefighters. It looks like this was a well-planned terrorist attack.”

Turville’s stomach twisted and he looked away. Had to be the Arabs again. They didn’t have any respect for life. He still remembered the day the Pentagon and World Trade Center were hit—he’d been in first grade then, and everything was crazy. Somehow they’d got it in their heads that their parents were picking them up because a plane was going to hit the school, too. One kid didn’t come back for almost three weeks: his mother, an accountant who consulted for the Department of Defense, had been injured in the Pentagon.

“We suspect there are more bombs scattered about the area,” the lieutenant went on. “You will exercise extreme caution when approaching vehicles, or anything you see lying in the area. Our platoon will be a screening force along Army-Navy drive between Route 1, over here, and South Lynn St, over there.”
The lieutenant gestured to the map as he pointed out the locations. “I want one squad to maintain position at the top of the exit ramp from 395 to the mall. The rule is simple: police, rescue, fire, and military vehicles may pass. No one else. If someone tries to force their way past, call for help and use the minimum force necessary to stop them. That includes the press—especially the press. They are not to be allowed in this area. Sergeant O’Donnell or myself will be the contacts if anyone needs to be taken into custody. Any questions?”

The men stood in silence.

“Everyone on the truck. We’ll go the circuit and drop off each squad,” said Sergeant O’Donnell.

With the others, Turville climbed back on the truck. It moved toward Army-Navy Boulevard, depositing each group of soldiers at their posts.

Turville’s squad got off the truck at the corner of Army-Navy, about two hundred yards from the still burning mall. Macy’s was at this end, the huge store windows smashed from the concussion, smoke still pouring out of the building. Two fire trucks stood to the side of the building, near an olive drab Army tent. The triage tent, the lieutenant had said.

In front of them, across the street, was the sweeping ramp from Interstate 395.

The squad leader spoke to the fire teams. “Leo, Gomez, I want you to set up a position about a hundred yards over there, right up against the second office building. Sergeant Nguyen, you set your team up to block the on-ramp there and the approach from Army-Navy over there. Meigs, Turville, you guys walk the position, up to Fern Street and back. We’ll work out a shift schedule shortly.”

Meigs and Turville dropped their rucksacks near the Sergeant and began walking their post. It was going to be a long night.

Three hours after the explosion near the Pentagon, Murphy still hadn’t reached Valerie, though he’d called her office and her cell phone repeatedly. He was sure she was okay; she worked in the Rayburn House Office Building, miles away from the Pentagon. All the same, he was on the verge of panic.

He drove back into the Highview town square, scanning for a parking space. The spaces in the square were all filled. Very unusual; folks must still be crowded into Sally’s Diner, watching the news coverage of the bombing. He circled the square.

“Daddy, stop, I want to get some ice-cream,” Kenny said, kicking the back of Murphy’s seat and pointing out the window at the ice cream shop.

“Not right now; we’re in a hurry.”

“Daddy hates me,” Kenny said the words in a sing-song, whining voice like fingernails scraping across a blackboard.

Murphy glanced back at his son in the rearview-mirror. It was so frustrating: they would have one or two good weeks, and then Kenny would slide back, with mood swings and tantrums, behaving like a two or three year old rather than a six year old. Murphy reminded himself that the boy had no idea that something terrible had happened. And he wasn’t responsible for his steadily worsening neurological condition.

What the hell was Murphy going to do without health insurance? And why couldn’t he reach Valerie? He spoke, an edge in his voice.

“No time for that now. I need to get you to Samira’s so I can get to my meeting. All right? No more complaining. We’ll do something fun tomorrow; it looks like I won’t be going to the office anytime soon, so I’ll pick you up straight from school.”

The town square included a well-manicured green area in the center, surrounded by shops. He parked the car in front of the Al-Khoury Lebanese Grocery.

“Okay, kiddo,” he said, stepping out of the car. He walked around to the other side and opened the rear passenger door. Kenny climbed out. Murphy was lucky this time: it hadn’t turned into a full-fledged tantrum. He didn’t have time for that right now.

Murphy took a deep breath when they walked in. He loved the fragrance of the spices. Ahmed, the owner, waved to him from the counter as he came in the door.

“Ken, Ken, I heard about the plant. Is everything okay? Can I get you anything?”

“No thanks, Ahmed. I’m all right, just dropping Kenny off with Samira.”

“Go on up.”

Murphy and his son headed down the narrow, crowded aisle to the stairs. Ahmed’s family lived in the small apartment upstairs. Samira, Ahmed’s twenty-year old daughter, was a student at Jefferson County Community College and had been baby-sitting Kenny off and on for the last three years. He paused and tilted his head, listening as he heard Ahmed’s radio. More bad news from Washington.

He jerked as the door burst in with a crash.

“Everybody freeze! Don’t move! Don’t move!”

At the shouts, Kenny screamed. Murphy pulled the boy close to him and backed against the wall, all thoughts gone but escape for his son.

“I said don’t move!” shouted a man, dressed in all black, wearing a flak vest and helmet. He pointed a folding stock rifle straight at Murphy’s head. Murphy looked back at the rifle, the barrel gaping. Near panic struck, his heart thumping wildly as he held his son close. The boy shook; Murphy gathered him close. His eyes narrowed when he noticed the letters embroidered above the man’s pocket: DHS. Department of Homeland Security.

Several other men, all dressed the same as the first, had shoved Ahmed against the wall. Two more men pounded up the stairs. Murphy listened to their pounding footsteps, then screams upstairs as they entered the upper floor. What was this?

He took a breath, then spoke, enunciating each word to keep his voice from quivering. “Mister, I don’t know who you are, but you are scaring my son.”

“Shut up!”

One of the men at the counter, short and balding with pale blue eyes framed by thick glasses, looked up at the shout, frowning, and said, “Bobby, chill out. Just keep an eye on the guy; he’s not what we’re here for.”

The man guarding Murphy glanced back over his shoulder, then back at Murphy. He didn’t say anything further.

Two of the men bent Ahmed over the counter and cuffed his hands behind his back. Two more came down the stairs, leading the entire family, including Ahmed’s wife Maryam and their three children. The middle child, Hayder, was seventeen, a senior at Jefferson County High School. The agents pushed him to the counter next to his father; then pushed the women and girls to the back.

“Look,” said the balding man at the counter. “You gentlemen cooperate and we’ll have you home right quick. We just want to ask you some questions.”

“Excuse me, sir,” Murphy said. “Are you in charge of these people?”

The man looked up at him.

“You need to mind your own business, sir.”

Murphy felt his eyebrows begin to twitch. “Now look. You men came in here brandishing guns at my six-year-old son without identifying yourselves. I say this is my business. I want to talk to you, right this minute.”

Kenny grabbed Murphy’s waist tighter.

The man walked across the aisle toward Murphy.

“Sir, I suggest again that you mind your own business.”

“What’s your name? Who are you?”

The man pulled a small folder out and held it up in Murphy’s face. “I’m Agent Justin Hagarty with the Department of Homeland Security. I’m with the Harpers Ferry extension office. We’re here to investigate a terrorist attack that took place today, and you, sir, are dangerously close to obstruction of justice. These men may have knowledge of the attack. They’ll be detained briefly, questioned, and released—assuming everything is in order.”

“Do you have a warrant? Where are you taking them?”

“I don’t need a warrant to detain and question men suspected of involvement with terrorism.”

Murphy took a breath and replied, “According to the United States Constitution you do.”

Hagarty shook his head and spoke in a calm, cool tone. “Mister, you can debate that in the courts. My job is to protect people, not hold a debate. We all have to give up some freedoms in order to be safe, so let me be clear: if you give us any more trouble, we will hold you on charges of obstruction of justice, and maybe as a material witness while we look into your connection with these suspected terrorists. You don’t want that to happen.”

Murphy recoiled. “Are you threatening me?”

“What do you think is going to happen with that boy if you’re in jail? A widower like you? I think they call it child abandonment when a single parent goes to jail.”

Murphy felt his face heat, and he clenched his fists.

Hagarty looked down at the shaking boy, then met Murphy’s eyes. “You know, a boy in his condition—he wouldn’t do well in foster care.”

“Let’s go,” he called to the other men, and they led Ahmed and Hayder toward the door.

As Hagarty reached the door, Murphy called out, “Hagarty!”
When the agent turned around and looked back, Murphy went on. “How do you know my son’s condition? And that I’m a widower?”

Hagarty looked back and smiled.

“That’s my job, Colonel Murphy. To keep an eye on things.”

He left, and the bell chimed as the door closed behind him.

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