racing to their respective cars. I checked my watch: 1:30.
In another thirty minutes, one way or another, this thing would be starting, or ending unhappily, and I would be traveling home in a bag.
Bian squeezed my hand and whispered, "Thank you." Smith handed us civilian bulletproof vests, weapons, six magazines of ammunition, flashlights, first aid kits, and night-vision goggles.
Bian and I stripped off our abayas, slipped the vests over our heads, hooked the first aid kits to our belts, stuffed the side pockets of our battle dress trousers with spare magazines, and then redressed.
I said to Bian, "What if this guy's not there?"
"Think optimistic."
"I am."
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
The car was a red Toyota Corolla, and Bian and I sat, cheek to cheek, in the cramped backseat, Finder and the hulking muscle known as Ted in the front.
Virgin soldiers and virgin girls on the verge of first action tend to respond alike. For the soldier, there is a natural anxiety and a corresponding adrenaline rush, which tends to evoke displays of juvenile bravado, telling silly jokes and laughing too emphatically at the punch lines. A girl tends to react by asking silly questions, like, "Do you really love me?" Apparently there were no virgins in this car--so there were no bad jokes--but you could cut the fear and anxiety with a knife.
Now there was no traffic on the road, and Finder drove with his headlights off and his night-vision goggles on. This road was, for the most part, straight, and he drove briskly and confidently; with all the potholes, it made for a bumpy and uncomfortable ride.
After another ten minutes he began pumping the brakes when, directly to our front, four lights flashed on and illuminated our car. He came to a complete stop, and sat perfectly still.
About thirty meters to our front, I noted, two humvees blocked the middle of the road. A nervous voice in English yelled, "Driver . . . out of the car now. Hands up, and step out of the car."
Bian whispered for my benefit, "Nighttime roadblock. They're edgy. Don't even breathe."
I didn't move, but I did breathe.
Finder shifted the car into park, twisted around, and said to us, "Marines. I'll handle it." He opened his door, stepped out, and stood, frenetically windmilling his arms over his head.
An American voice yelled, "Do you speak English?"
Finder replied, "Isn't that a stupid fucking question? Would I be obeying your directions otherwise? Name's Finder. Get Captain Yuknis."
This was not the same as the old World War II drill where the Marine asks, "Who won the '42 World Series?" and the Jap is betrayed by his cultural ignorance and blown to smithereens. Without authorized passwords, however, you have to improvise, and a little colloquial profanity is as American as apple pie. A long moment passed without a response before a voice yelled back, "He's napping."
"Well, hell, boy, roust him. Tell him Finder's here."
I could overhear young American voices debating whether to trifle their captain with this. This appeared to be part of a Marine infantry company--about 180 short-haired hardcocks--and in units such as this, a captain is the commander, and he might not tell God what to do, though God pays close attention when he speaks.
After a moment, Finder yelled, "For Christsakes--would you hurry it up? Wake him up, or I'll have your asses."
A moment later I observed a gentleman, tall and lanky, striding through the trail of lights. As he drew closer, I observed the profile of a helmet and fatigues, which were Marine style, and overheard him inform Finder, "Dammit, Eric, I was having my first wet dream since I got in country. Got a woodie the size of Mount Everest. This better be good."
"Mount Everest? A white boy? Yeah . . . bullshit." Finder laughed. "Hey, better of been your wife in that dream."
"'Course it was." He laughed also. "Both her sisters, too. Especially that big-tittied one, Elizabeth."
Bian whispered to me, "Pigs."
"Nonsense. Boy talk."
Somebody punched me in the ribs.
Finder informed Captain Yuknis, "Got a job tonight. We'll be coming out between four and five. Appreciate it if you'd pass word to your Marines."
Instead of replying, Captain Yuknis yelled to his men by the humvees, "Sergeant Goins, if you'd be so kind, extinguish those damn headlights before Abdullah the sniper ventilates me."
The lights went out, and Captain Yuknis stepped closer to the car and bent forward at the waist. I observed him observing us through the windows. To Finder, he said, "Who are the Iraqi ladies?"