Kaboom by Matthew Gallagher Page B

and how if life went well, nothing wouldn’t be so rare anymore. The gears of my mind were just beginning to grind toward muscle movement, mainly a product of memory rather than a conscious decision, when SFC Big Country barreled through the door.
    â€œThe IA got Mohammed Shaba!” he said, staying just long enough to drop off his now empty mug of coffee. Just like that, he was gone, I was back in Iraq, and my nothingness had burst like a star cluster, illuminating all kinds of gut-wrenching, hidden somethings back into plain sight. I cursed to myself, slapped myself in the face, and hopped off the top bunk. The nothingness was now gone. Maybe next lifetime, I thought to myself.
    So, they got the Ghost. Saba al-Bor’s native son, a known terrorist and wanted murderer, had been a general thorn in the side of Coalition forces for the better portion of the past year. Much of his celebrity status was overblown, mainly due to his self-designated nickname, which translated to either Mohammed the Ghost or Mohammed the Shadow, depending which terp had been asked. Nevertheless, Higher had longed after this JAM insurgent in a manner that bordered on Brokeback. Capturing him was a public relations dream, if not a key strategic blow for Shia extremism in our area. The Gravediggers had already been on a few boondoggles going after him, but we were always a room away, ten minutes late, or finding his grandfather with a full piss bag but without a grandson. When Mohammed Shaba missions came down, it usually felt like we were hunting a black dog in the night. These experiences weren’t isolated to just our platoon; they encapsulated all of Bravo Troop’s bouts with the Ghost. And now the Iraqi army had him. Sure, I was shocked, but good for the IA, I thought. That was what we were aiming for, after all—a self-sustaining Iraqi security force.
    Yawning noisily, I strolled out of our room and into the main foyer of the combat outpost. Captain Whiteback and a few of the soldiers from Headquarters platoon were heading out the front door, en route to the IA compound to tactically question the Ghost and his fellow detainees. I bumped
into Lieutenant Virginia Slim, who was coming up the stairs and taking off his helmet; he had just been over with the IAs.

    (from left to right) Specialist Big Ern, Corporal Spot, Staff Sergeant Boondock, PFC Van Wilder, and Specialist Prime show off their respective moustaches and sneers. Scout platoons were smaller than most other combat units, and the relationship between NCOs and soldiers tended to be less rigid and more instruction-oriented as a result.
    â€œDude,” he said, “you should head over and check these guys out.”
    â€œWhy?” I didn’t really feel compelled to put on my gear. I was more interested in grabbing a few banana nut muffins and seeing if there were any pieces of bacon left. “Did the CO [commanding officer] say he needed me?”
    â€œNaw, I just thought you’d appreciate the scene. They’re just a couple of scared, punk teenagers. We probably could’ve had them months ago if we had set up a trap with XBoxes, a few porn mags, and some pounds of weed.”
    We laughed, and I sauntered toward the pantry. I rubbed the stubble of my face. I should probably shave too, I thought. It had been a few days.
    After breakfast and a quick dry shave, curiosity got a hold of me, and I walked across the street to the IA compound. I poked my head around the fence line and spotted a crowd of IA soldiers—commonly referred to by their Arabic name, jundis—interlaced with a group of American soldiers sent over to ensure the detention process stayed peaceful. There was a post-prize fight feeling in the air. The soldiers of both countries were joking with one another incessantly, crowing like young bantams at a cockfight. They crowded
around three grubby, emaciated shapes in handcuffs and wrapped in blankets that were stacked against the