Hell Hole by Chris Grabenstein

kite. Couldn’t trust that weak sister to cover your ass worth a damn.”
    â€œI’m told they found drug paraphernalia near his body last night.”
    â€œRoger that. Guess he smuggled some of that happy horseshit and a Russian PB/6P9 pistol home with him. I wanted to wash him out of our unit but the boys with the brass brains wouldn’t let me. Seems we were short on manpower. Too many guys checking out after a single tour.”
    Now the other guys stare at Ceepak, like it’s his fault one of their buddies became a junkie who hated being a soldier so much he put a pistol in his mouth and pulled the trigger.
    Dixon jabs a stubby thumb in my general direction. “Your partner here tells me you won some medals.”
    â€œOne or two.”
    â€œYou pick up a Purple Heart?” Dixon asks Ceepak.
    â€œNo.”
    â€œGuess you weren’t there long enough. Rolled into Baghdad just in time to watch them pull down that Saddam statue and said, ‘hasta la vista, baby’—hightailed it home before the Hajis started blowing up every fucking American convoy they could with their roadside IEDs.”
    Now it’s Ceepak’s eyes doing the narrowing. I know he saw his share of improvised explosive devices during his stint in Iraq. I also know he came under some pretty serious enemy fire. He got one medal, the Bronze Star for heroic service in combat, when he risked his life to run up an alley in Sadr City and drag a guy to safety—some gunner he didn’t even know—while Sunni snipers up on the rooftops tried to nail
him. My man may have only served one tour of duty but he’s definitely done his time in hell.
    â€œI was never wounded,” Ceepak answers without any emotion. “Not in Iraq.”
    â€œMe neither. Too fast.” Dixon does a quick juke step and head fake, like he’s a point guard for the Nets. “Kept dodging the bullets and the bombs. Now, my man over there, Lieutenant Worthless …” He points to the tall guy doing tong duty at the grill. “Old Worthless took a Haji bullet in the leg.”
    I remember now: he had a limp when he came out with the cell phone to tell us about Smith last night.
    â€œThey gave him all sorts of medals for that one. Right, Worthless?”
    â€œYeah.”
    â€œYou pack your Purple Heart?”
    â€œIt’s inside.”
    â€œWell, shit, Lieutenant—pin it to your swimsuit. That and a beach badge will get your pecker wet.” He turns away. Walks back to the beer cooler. Fishes out a green bottle. Heineken. Twists it open. Takes a swig. Takes his time. “You gentlemen need something?” he finally asks. “Or is this just a condolence call?”
    â€œWe need to examine Corporal Smith’s vehicle,” says Ceepak. “More specifically—the trunk.”
    â€œWhy?”
    â€œWe have reason to believe that he was the victim of a burglary last night. We think some local thieves stole his CD changer.”
    â€œReally?” Dixon shakes his head. Starts to laugh. “Jesus, Ceepak. The pussy freak blew his brains out in a fucking crapper. You think he or I or any of these men give two shits about a goddamn CD changer?”
    â€œNo, I do not. However, I think investigating this criminal incident might lead us to the truth behind what happened to Corporal Smith last night.”
    â€œCome again?”
    â€œHe didn’t commit suicide. I’m sure of it.”
    â€œWhat?”
    â€œShareef Smith was murdered.”

12
    It’s rare that Ceepak makes a pronouncement like that.
    Usually, you ask him, “Was this guy murdered?” he says, “It’s a possibility.” I think there’s something about a fellow soldier’s unseemly death that’s hit him hard.
    â€œYou’re telling me somebody murdered one of my men?” snaps Dixon. All of a sudden, Shareef Smith isn’t a “pussy freak” who