would understand later, unplug from the political and spiritual battles of the 1960s, which they felt had been lost by the end of the decade. He wanted to make that journey in reverse, to engage with a world he felt isolated from.
With his parents’ blessing, and a combination of loans and scholarships, he moved to Manhattan and attended NYU, right in the middle of his parents’ old bohemian stomping ground of Greenwich Village. It was a world of exciting firsts. First girlfriend. First time trying drugs. First mugging. But there was something surprising and disappointing too, especially about those native to the city and the surrounding upscale suburbs—a kind of urban provincialism shared by many of his classmates, people who did not look beyond themselves because they thought they were the center of the world.
In his senior year, the world came to them. He was just waking up in his tiny fifth-floor walk-up on the Lower East Side when the first plane hit the North Tower. He was down on the street with hundreds of onlookers when the second plane struck, and running from a wall of smoke, dust, and debris when both towers collapsed and blotted out the sun.
He went through the motions for the rest of his senior year and barely graduated. After a restless few months back home, he enlisted in the Army.
His parents were predictably devastated. The specter of Uncle Reggie, his father’s older brother who had died in Vietnam and was almost never spoken of, hung in the air. But his enlistment wasn’t an act of rebellion against his lefty parents, or even an act of revenge against the people who brought the towers down. He was just trying to make sense of things. And in that moment, the Army was what made sense.
He began basic training on the same day that Secretary of State Colin Powell held up a model vial of anthrax—one of Iraq’s supposed weapons of mass destruction—on the floor of the U.N. General Assembly. Four months later he was deployed to Fort Lewis in Washington State as part of the 2nd Infantry’s 3rd Stryker Brigade. About six months after that he was on patrols in downtown Baghdad. He recalled very clearly the first time he was shot at. He would never forget the first platoon-mate he saw killed.
They were approaching the exits for the terminals. Overhead, an Airbus roared across the washed-out sky, wheels down, coming in for a steady landing.
“Which airline?” asked Brodie.
“Copa.”
“What the hell is that?”
“Panama’s national airline. And the only one available to take us from Newark to Caracas on a last-minute red-eye. We’ve got a three-hour layover in Panama City.”
“Next time book a private jet.”
“The travel office got us business class.”
Right. The Army only splurged on business-class travel when the place you were going to sucked. So that made it official.
Brodie saw the exit for long-term parking. If everything went right with this mission, they wouldn’t be coming back through this airport. And if everything went wrong, they wouldn’t be coming back at all. Who’d get his Chevy Impala? Probably Newark Airport, to pay for the long-term parking.
He pulled off the expressway.
CHAPTER 9
They took the airport shuttle bus from the long-term parking lot to the terminal, checked in, dropped off their bags, and got through security with over an hour to kill before boarding. Copa Airlines was affiliated with United, so they headed toward the United Club Lounge.
It was a little past 10 P.M., and the terminal was quiet. At one gate a group of backpackers was camped out on the floor, waiting on a delayed flight to Barcelona, where Brodie wished he were going.
They passed a currency exchange booth and Taylor wanted to change some dollars for Venezuela’s local currency, the bolívar. An LED screen was updating rates in real time, but the window that was supposed to display the exchange rate for Venezuela was blank.
Taylor said to the middle-aged guy behind the window, “I’d like to buy some Venezuelan bolívars.”
“Sorry, miss, we’re not dealing in bolívars any more. The market’s too unstable. You’ll have to take care of it on the other end.”
Brodie said to Taylor, “I told you this was a bad idea for our honeymoon.” He turned back to the guy. “I said, ‘Let’s go to Venice’; she says she misheard me.”
The man gave him a blank look, and Taylor pulled Brodie away from the window. “I hope you’re amusing yourself.”
“Someone has to.”
They found the United Club Lounge, which was not far from