Moondogs - Alexander Yates [21]
His hand tightens on Efrem’s shoulder and together they turn to look into the far clearing. Sure enough, sometime during the brief speech one of the LRB soldiers had quit his chameleonic guard and set targets along the green at increasing distances, from 800 meters to about 1,800. More than just the traditionally crude wooden silhouettes, these targets are pasted over with the likenesses of regional and international terrorists—Kumander Robot, Abu Bakar Bashir, and old Osama himself.
“No point keeping us in suspense,” Yapha says, taking a step back. Charlie and the reporters step back as well. The short man stays where he is.
Everybody waits. Efrem looks at the distant targets. He fingers the safety catch on his empty Tingin rifle. He levels the empty rifle at the targets, and then lowers it again. What on earth do they want from him? Finally, Yapha comes to the rescue.
“What’s the matter, soldier?”
“I can’t,” Efrem says, his voice cracking like it’s old. Or very new.
“The hell you can’t,” Yapha says. “I’ve seen you hit harder than that, plenty. No need to be shy, son.”
“I’m not …” he waits. “I can’t. I can’t because my rifle’s empty.”
Some of the reporters gasp a little, and Charlie looks down at the ground like he’s really sad. Efrem feels like he could die.
“Jesus,” Yapha says, turning to Charlie. “I’m sorry about this, I should have—”
“Fuck no,” Charlie says. “This isn’t your fault, Tony. You were just up there. It’s not your job to beg for their help.” He turns, speaking now to the reporters. “Forgive the language, but it’s shit like this that drives me crazy. I hate being reminded so often why I, an actor, have to run for office when our country’s in the state it’s in. To come down here, and see arguably our best soldier standing around with an empty weapon, utterly helpless … it just makes me so angry I can hardly put words together. It seems that under this administration, the only soldiers who get any kind of support are the Americans. While our own troops are underprepared and underequipped. I mean, do you see the state of his gear?” Without looking at Efrem, he points back at him. At his dented helmet. At his oversized hand-me-down boots. He goes on a little while longer, but Efrem can hardly hear it for the blood filling his ears. He has never been so humiliated in his life.
But he keeps quiet, like Yapha told him, and the ridicule doesn’t last much longer. Charlie Fuentes finishes up with the reporters and then shakes hands all around. Some of them return to their jeep while others head down toward the division to get some stock footage. Charlie and Yapha start to wander off as well, when the short man pipes up.
“These games are fine and good,” he says. “But I’d like to see what he can do.”
THE EXPRESSION ON CHARLIE’S FACE IS STARTLING. He seems almost afraid of this small, insignificant person. “Now’s not really the best—”
“Fuck that,” the short man interrupts, plucking Efrem’s magazine right out of Yapha’s vest pocket. “You got your little scene. And I already wasted a whole day on this. You owe me.”
He crosses to Efrem, snatches the custom Tingin out of his hands and drives the loaded magazine into the assembly. “So,” he says. “Khalid Bakkar? Does that name mean that you’re as Moro as you look?”
“I’m sorry, sir?” Ashamed as he is, it’s all he can do to look this ugly little man in the face.
“Where do you come from?”
“Western Mindanao. A little isla—”
“Of course you do. You’re a regular Mohammed.”
Efrem’s back tightens.
“And what kind of rounds does your service weapon fire?”
“Fifty-caliber BMGs, sir.”
“Fifty cal? Shit, with a fifty cal, even I could hit those targets.” He gestures vaguely at the plywood and paper terrorists dotting the field.
“If you say so, sir.” Efrem speaks through clenched teeth.
“Easy, son.” Yapha says.
“No worries.” The short man grins. “I’m fine with lip, long as it backs itself up.” He looks down at Efrem’s Tingin, running his fingers from stock to barrel. “No scope?”
“The field issue comes with one. I shoot better without it.