Betrayal

Anyway, lots more to tell about some of the other insane elements of the economics of this place-all the cooks here at the base are Filipinos, and the actual guards out at the airport are from Nepal. We met a guy named Kuvan today who evidently supplies Allstrong with all these workers. Nolan tells me none of them make more than a hundred and fifty bucks a month, where he makes twenty thousand! He tells me thatwhen I get done with my service here, I should volunteer to come back and work for Allstrong. Ex-American military guys make out like bandits here. You'd love it if I went that way, huh?

Okay, enough about this place. You hear about Iraq enough anyway, I'm sure. What I'd really like to know is if you're reading any of these, if I'm at least communicating with you a little. It's hard you not answering, Tara. If you've gotten this far on this letter, and you don't want me to write to you anymore, just tell me somehow and I promise I'll stop. If you've made up your mind and it's completely over. But some part of me holds on to the hope that you might be willing to give us another try when I come home.

I know, as you said a hundred times, IF I get home. Well, here's the deal. I'm coming home.

I'm just having a hard time accepting that our slightly different politics have really broken us up. It's true that I think sometimes it's okay to fight for something, either because you believe in the cause or because you've signed on to fight. You've given your word. It's as simple as that. Maybe you don't think that, and we can argue about it more someday, I hope.

If you could just write me back, one way or the other, Tara, I'd love to hear from you. I love you. Still.

"Hey! Evan."

He looked up to see Ron Nolan standing in the doorway that led back to the dormitory where his men slept. He had written his letter sitting in muted light at a table in the otherwise empty mess hall. Now he'd just finished addressing his envelope and put his pen down, nodding in acknowledgment. "Sir."

Nolan stepped into the room. "Hey, haven't we already been over this? You're Evan, I'm Ron. What are you, twenty-five?"

"Twenty-seven."

"Well, I'm thirty-eight. Give me a break. You call me 'sir,' I feel old. I feel old, I get mean. I get mean, I kill people. Then you'd be to blame. It's a vicious circle and it would all be your fault."

The last words he'd written to Tara still with him, Evan had to force his face into a tolerant smile. "You'd just kill somebody at random?"

Nolan was up to the table by now, grinning. "It's been known to happen. It's not pretty. You want a beer?"

Evan had a nagging feeling that this recreational drinking could become a slippery slope. It would make the second time he'd had alcohol since his arrival over here. But then really, he thought, what the fuck. With everything else that was going on over here, who really cared? Nevertheless, he took a half-swing at reluctance. "We're not supposed to drink," he said.

"Oh, right, I forgot." Nolan cocked his head. "Are you fucking kidding me? Somebody here gonna bust you? You're in charge here, dude."

"I know. I'm thinking about my men."