Free Cold Snap by J. Clayton Rogers Page B

making
friendly with the Americans, with lethal consequences sure to
follow.
    An officer emerged from the side door,
red-eyed from long hours of listening to translators reel off names
and data from SSO personnel files. He began to draw in a deep
breath as he stretched, but was brought up short by the unholy
stench of steamrolling shit. He took out a cigar and quickly lit
up, firing off clouds of smoke like an industrial hygienist
fumigating a pestilential neighborhood. He was around Ghaith's age,
but not the same build. His desert camo hung limp in the swamplike
humidity.
    Ghaith dismissed any notion of trying to lure
the officer into an isolated corner and robbing him of his uniform.
Way too risky. Stripping an unconscious man was a cumbersome
process. True, there were plenty of discreet sound-proof rooms in
the building. But convincing this vet to follow him alone into a
room previously used to torture suspects verged on the impossible.
Strangers in a strange land, a foreign soldier was unlikely to
succumb to the blandishments of a local. And an old veteran like
this would be doubly cautious.
    Turning away from the porta-potties, the
officer went down the alley, away from the road. He had the
telltale urgent saunter of a confident man with a full bladder.
Confronted by a pressing logistical problem, he was sure to solve
it one way or another, even if it meant becoming a public nuisance.
Not that pissing in a Baghdad gutter was considered much of a crime
these days.
    Coming to the back wall, the officer opened
his fly without looking right or left. No lowly private was going
to question his right to flush out his system on government
property. This was one of the lucky Iraqi structures to have
escaped the rubble heap, and a little bit of urine on the wall was
a small price for survival; cheap and efficient, if a tad
unhygienic.
    Ghaith came up next to him, opened his fly,
and joined his stream to the officer's. Preoccupied with the Iraqi
general's phone call, he had not taken the opportunity to relieve
himself in the john.
    The officer cocked an eye sideways at him and
grunted. He did not seem pleased to share a piss with a local.
    "You have a most prominent pecker," Ghaith
said sociably.
    "Yeah, and this is a most prominent M11
strapped to my hip." The officer, not to be intimidated, shifted a
bit to the left, splashing a few drops on Ghaith's boots. "You want
a better look?"
    "You seem put out," Ghaith said with sudden
contrition. "Don't Americans talk about their peckers?"
    "Not while they're in use," the officer
scowled. "Although there's certain types that can't talk enough
about it. What type are you?"
    "I am at a deficit," said Ghaith, whose
English was usually better than this, but who wanted to appear
harmless and goofy. The officer's frown lightened.
    "You're one of the translators, aren't
you?"
    "I have that service," Ghaith admitted.
    "Hasn't anyone ever told you not to try using
slang until you've mastered a language? You don't go to France and
tell a woman she has a nice pair of jugs—not in French. They take
it the wrong way."
    "Sterling advice."
    "And you don't gawp at another man's pecker,
even if it's Grade A Inspected," the officer continued, tucking
himself back in. "You can learn from us. America's the greatest
meritocracy in the world. The bigger the dick…"
    "Indeed," said Ghaith, zipping up. The
officer turned to him and worked his lips around his cigar, as
though about to deliver another injunction against the misuse of
English. Ghaith caught him with a different brand of English under
the chin so hard the cigar snapped in half, the glowing tip flying
off, sparks exploding on Ghaith's chest as he jumped forward to
catch the officer and ease him to the ground. The man's hands had
jerked up almost waist high as he reflexively defended himself
before even knowing what was happening. He jellied down and Ghaith
spread him in a dramatic pose, arms outflung. He thought for an
instant of taking the pistol.