Page 17 of Whisper
In his will, he left his mamá half his bank account, and gave instructions to donate the rest to the Washington DC LGBT Center, along with his car. Maybe it would be best if he did die. The LGBT center would be better off with two thousand dollars. Surely the world would be better off without him. Surely.
He’d been too wired to sleep, so he’d pulled on his sneakers and running shorts, grabbed a hoodie, and headed out. He lived in Falls Church, Virginia, a postage-stamp suburb south of DC. His apartment was between the Whole Foods and the Circuit City. Just after four in the morning, the town was silent, smothered in darkness and sleep, but DC shone like a beacon on the hill beyond the Potomac River. He could see the Washington Monument, see the lights from the Lincoln Memorial. The dome of the Capitol, just barely, or at least the glow.
He’d also seen the floodlights from the search and recovery operation at the Pentagon. He’d tasted the smoke, still lingering in the air, the atomization of the beating heart of American military force. Never before had there been an attack on the US homeland.
He’d run faster, trying to outrun his thoughts. Feet pounding on concrete just starting to turn dewy with the first blush of autumn.Slap, slap, slap. He’d thought he heard the sound of construction trucks, of heavy machinery moving at the Pentagon. They’d be moving rubble, clearing debris. Searching for remains. Every time a body was found, work came to a standstill, every person present standing and removing their hard hats, placing their hands over their hearts, and watching as the fallen was escorted to an ambulance to be carried to the morgue.
Slap, slap, slap. Faster, harder. He couldn’t outrun the images, the scenes playing over and over in his mind. The attacks, planes disappearing into fireballs, screams, shouts of horror. American flags were draped from every streetlight, every traffic pole, banners that seemed to drip crimson-red blood all over the pavement before him.You did this. You let this happen.
Ashes and dust hung in the air, choking his mouth, his nose. He hadn’t been able to breathe, suddenly, the air too thick, too cloying. He’d stopped, doubled over, gasping. His fingers had clawed at his throat, at his face, trying to clear the ash, the dust, rip away the ghosts that tried to strangle him.Ashes to ashes, dust to dust. Every breath he’d taken inhaled more of the dead.You did this. You let us die.
He’d puked in the parking lot of Walgreens and collapsed in the flower bed on the corner. He’d squashed yellow daisies and pink ground cover, but hadn’t cared. When the sprinklers had turned on half an hour later, he’d finally gotten up and stumbled back to his apartment.
So, at eleven in the morning, he was in exactly no mood for George’s bullshit. He stared George down, willing him to look him in the eye.Be a man, George. Say this to my face.
“Kris…” George cleared his throat. Put his hands on his hips. Stared at the wall beyond Kris’s ear. “You know there have been some… concerns about you on this team.”
Kris ran his tongue over his teeth, sucking his lips together. His jaw ached, his teeth gritted. Holding back. His coffee cup trembled, his hand, his arm shaking.
“There are concerns about how the Afghans will react to…” George waved his hand over Kris, a sweeping motion that reduced everything that he was down to one adjective:gay.
“So—” George cleared his throat. Finally looked Kris in the eye. “I need you to keep your head down once we’re in theater. Do your job. Don’t—” He seemed to stumble, fumbling for the right word. “Don’t advertise.” He sighed, closing his eyes and shaking his head. “Look, Kris, it’s a matter of safety.” He spread his hands, and a helpless look crossed his face. “We need to get this done. We can’t be also worrying about how the Afghans are reacting to you. We can’t be worrying about whether you’re in danger, or if they’re planning on taking you out. So, please. Tone it down?”
Kris’s voice was cutting, ice sharpened to razors. “Whatexactlywould you like me to tone down?”
“That. That attitude. Right there. You don’t have to fight everything all the time. We’re just trying to help you.”
“I don’t need your help, George. I am just as qualified as every other member of this team. What I need is a little more confidence in my abilities, which have absolutely nothing to do with my sexuality.”
“You’re not as experienced. Everyone has been in the field before except you. You’re coming because of your specialized knowledge of the country and your language abilities. And because you haven’t been in the field before, in a hostile environment, everyone else is going to have to watch out for you. Watch your back. Pick up your slack.”
“There won’t be any slack for you to pick up. Not from me.” Kris’s blood burned. His molars scraped over each other, his jaw twitching.
“We still have to watch out for you. Because...” George waved his hand again, up and down Kris’s body. As if he couldn’t say the word. “Just… don’t make it obvious what you are.”
“Is there something I’ve done in the past week that screams what I ‘obviously’ am?”
George stared at him. He stayed quiet.
Kris broke first, pulling out a sealed envelope from inside his jacket. He held it out.
“You quitting? This your resignation?”
“It’s my will. The only way I’m off the team is if you get rid of me. So either bench me and deal with Clint Williams or take this and let me get back to work. I have to call Dushanbe station today and check in with my contact in the Shura Nazar. Negotiations have been tense this week. General Khan is supposed to tell us today if we’re allowed into their territory in northern Afghanistan.” He shook the envelope. “So, are you going to take this?”
George snatched it out of Kris’s hand. “Let me know as soon as you hear from your contact in Dushanbe.”
Chapter 4
September 19, 2001
“Hop in.” Jim popped the trunk as he slid his sedan into park at Kris’s curb. “I can help you with that.” He unbuckled his seat belt and got one foot out of the driver’s door.
“I’m fine.” Kris hefted his ruck. He’d done the best he could getting everything packed. He’d whittled out as much as he could, too. But how did someone pack for a warzone when he had no idea how long he’d be gone? One sweater or two? How cold wasAfghanistancold? Was the jar of peanut butter really necessary? After six weeks of MREs, would he murder someone for a spoonful of Nutella?
He dropped his ruck in the trunk next to Jim’s. His was smaller, leaner. Less full. They both had sleeping bags strapped to the top and thin sleeping mats on the bottom, but Jim had obviously stuffed his pack almost to bursting. Kris wanted to run back up to his apartment and grab everything he’d dumped. Clearly, he hadn’t packed enough. But if he stuffed it fuller, he wouldn’t be able to lift it. And then what would George say?
Kris slammed the trunk and came around to the passenger side. Jim stared. “Ready?”
