Recovery

Grant walked down the street to the Mess Hall, his mind on everything but food. He glanced at the workers who were queuing up for the supper meal. It was a practice he didn’t like, but the S-5, Lieutenant Sage, in an effort to win the hearts and minds of the locals, had convinced the Colonel to allow the contract labor to have little celebration in the mess hall before they left for the last time. The argument had gone back and forth about where to hold a party. Price had already sprung for a feast at one of the farms in the project zone. This was going to be the ‘official’ celebration, complete with a speech. The workers were lined up by a field expedient wash rack, rinsing off. The sun had been intense today, with a lack of cloud cover. He noticed most of the workers had a fine coating of dust on them. Most of them were talking in their usual animated fashion, joking with one another. Grant passed them, then stopped and looked back. It had been reflexive, and he didn’t know why he had done it. He didn’t even concentrate on what he was looking at. He stared for a moment, then went into the building. There was nothing particularly appetizing about the meal, and he filled his tray and sat at his usual table, against the wall so he could watch the entire room. It was an old habit, one he found especially hard to break. Sharp and Price left the group they were sitting with and came over to join him. There was the usual exchange of pleasantries, then the three fell into silence and ate their meals. Grant looked over to the door and watched the Moldovan workers come in. This was the third time he had looked at them, and still didn’t know why. Price saw him looking and made an idle comment. “It sure got dusty out there today. The damn water truck broke down again. If we’ve got to do much more work, I’m going to have the Motor Pool transfer the bladders to one of our trucks. That fucking Russian relic ain’t cutting it.” Dust! That was it! All the workers weren’t dusty. Grant stood and looked towards the door. His hand went to the pistol he carried on his hip under his blouse. One of the workers was moving away from the others, moving towards a group of GIs enjoying their supper. “Down! Everybody on the floor!” He heard his voice call out. The hall went silent as heads turned to look at him. One soldier saw the pistol come out and called to his friends, “Oh fuck! The Sergeant Major’s lost it!” Others saw the gun and sat frozen. Grant was fixated on the worker who had moved away from the group. It was the lack of dirt and dust on this one that must have caught his attention earlier, it just hadn’t registered. He kept moving towards the group of GIs. Everyone was watching Grant. No one was paying attention to the lone worker. His eyes were shifting around, and then he saw Grant and the outstretched pistol. He was holding a cell phone to his ear, his other hand started to move to the front of his shirt. Grant saw the movement and yelled at him, ”Hands! Show me your hands!” The Moldovan looked blankly at him, his hands hesitating. Grant repeated the command, this time gesturing with his left hand, showing the Moldovan what he wanted. The worker understood, and began to walk faster. His hands went to the center of his shirt. Grant saw the movement. “Fuck me!” was all he said as he squeezed the first shot off. The bullet slammed into the bridge of the workers nose, throwing his head back. Grant brought the sights backed down, and they line up on the now wide-open mouth as the Moldovan fell backwards. He fired again, the bullet entering the roof of the mouth. The Moldovan went down, his arms now flung wide. There was a crash of trays, chairs and tables as the room finally came alive, soldiers diving for the floor to get out of the line of fire. All except Price and Sharp. As soon as Grant’s gun came out they were up and drawing theirs, moving to each side of him. They didn’t know why at first, but they knew they had to give him backup. As soon as they saw the Moldovan worker, they understood, and swung around to cover the other workers. Grant was standing over the dead man, his pistol still aimed at his face. He started giving commands. “Get everybody outside! Secure the workers and start searching them!” Perkins had heard the shooting in the headquarters building and had run over to the source with Morgan and Carstairs in tow. Troops were moving out as ordered, and Price and Sharp had the workers in a group, putting them on their knees with their hands on their heads. They were the first Perkins spoke to. “What the hell is going on here?” “Don’t know yet, Colonel,” Sharp answered. “The CSM has one down on the floor in there.” Perkins entered the building and went to where Grant was bending over the body. He had opened the shirt, and Perkins could see the wires and the black plastic pouches. There was a cell phone connected to the array. The man had been a suicide bomber, intent on killing as many Americans as he could. “How’d you know, Sergeant Major?” “The dust.” Perkins looked down. This one seemed to be as dirty as the rest, and he said so. “Yeah, they’re all dirty. But everybody else was covered in that red dust. This one just rubbed in dirt to look like he was working all day He hadn’t planned on the water truck breaking down.”