War of the Encyclopaedists: A Novel by Christopher Robinson & Gavin Kovite

Author:Christopher Robinson & Gavin Kovite
Language: eng
Format: mobi
Tags: Coming of Age, Literary, General, Fiction
ISBN: 9781476775449
Publisher: Scribner
Published: 2015-05-19T04:00:00+00:00

27

* * *

Montauk moved slowly through the buffet line, watching his Thanksgiving plate assemble itself as the Pakistani servers heaped the standard sides in designated quadrants. The DFAC was quieter than usual, the clattering of silverware barely audible above soft conversations, as if the cafeteria’s patrons had temporarily developed manners. Suffused with the moist, fat smell of turkey, the atmosphere seemed to approximate “reverence” or “grace.” But the DFAC was still the converted ballroom of the Al Rasheed Hotel—high ceilings and fluorescent lights. And it was decorated by the Pakistani staff, which meant papier-mâché pilgrims, eagles, and, for some reason, a tabletop display featuring Shrek and Donkey.

Montauk wandered past tables of Blackwater PSDs, contractors, CPA bureaucrats, embassy types, media, and Navy SEALs. He found some of his guys at a table in the corner. “Stuffing’s good,” Urritia said as Montauk sat down. He nodded and tucked into his meal. The stuffing was good.

He ate quickly, like he did every day, like most soldiers do, then sat back in his chair observing the room. It was an impressive feat of logistics, getting big turkeys out here, thousands of pounds of mashed potatoes, teaching the Pakistani kitchen staff how to put together a Thanksgiving meal. But to the servers, it was just any old Thursday. And outside these walls, the Iraqis probably had no idea it was Thanksgiving. Ant was staring off into space. Sodium Joh was drawing infinity signs in the leftover gravy on his plate.

Montauk ate half of an unremarkable slice of pumpkin pie, then got up to leave.

“Some of us are going to Freedom Rest, sir,” Urritia said.

“Oh, the place they got set up next to Warhorse?”

“Hooah. They got the pool open, and everybody gets two beers. It’s only open today.”

“Isn’t that where they put all the PTSD cases?” Montauk asked.

“Roger, sir. They probably just hid them all in the closet or something for today. Two beers—you gotta sign up at the TOC, though, and roll down in a convoy.”

“Two beers. That’s two ounces of beer per month of deployment,” said Joh.

“I’ll pass,” Montauk said. “Don’t get pregnant.”

• • •

He poked his head into the CPIC. About a third of his platoon was in there, along with other troops and civilian government types. The Colts-Lions game was about to start, but kickoff was still twenty minutes out, and the Armed Forces Network was showing the presidential turkey pardoning. Bush stepped up to the podium and said, “I’m pleased to welcome biscuits . . .” For a second, it seemed like he’d developed aphasia. “. . . the national Thanksgiving turkey,” he continued. “Biscuits, welcome.” Bush made a string of strange jokes about Biscuits’ tough road to earning his White House pardon, saying that “Barnyard Animals for Truth” got involved, and that “a scurrilous film came out, Fahrenheit three-seventy-five degrees at ten minutes per pound.” He carried on with some boilerplate praise of the armed forces, “many of whom are spending Thanksgiving far from home.” Montauk always felt awkward when

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