Connie Chen

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Excerpt

Harold O’Neill, a.k.a. Halliburton Hal, is taking an online personality quiz titled “Which Deposed Twentieth-Century Dictator Are You?” when I walk into his office. A local ad for Waleed’s War Goods and Wonders Emporium blares from a portable radio perched on the windowsill above his head.

“Join us this September 11 weekend for Waleed’s World Trade discount extravaganza! We’re slashing prices and honoring all military service members, first responders, and veterans by offering a whopping forty percent off all Global War on Terrorism merchandise! Pick up your al-Qaeda and Taliban relics before they’re gone! Share in the savings with over fifteen Waleed’s locations throughout the Middle East! All products within standard of US Customs regulations. Prices may vary. Other restrictions may apply. See local stores for details.”

Before I can get a glimpse of his selection for “preferred weapon of mass destruction,” Hal minimizes his browser window and whips around in his swivel chair.

“My favorite captain!” he says. “To what do I owe this pleasure?” 

I settle down on the dilapidated couch across from his desk. The upholstery smells of Doritos and cigarettes. “People wouldn’t be able to sneak up on you if you turned your desk around,” I tell him.

“But then I would have to acknowledge them when they walked in,” he says with a wink. “Water?” He takes two bottles from a mini fridge next to his desk and tosses one to me. 

Hal, a sweaty white program manager employed by the Department of Defense, and prior to that, Halliburton, has been hopping between bases in Afghanistan and Iraq since the early 2000s, taking just two weeks off each year to go see his various progeny in the Philippines.

“Government jobs are where you want to retire,” he advised when we first met. “My old colleagues at Halliburton are making more than me now, but come retirement, I’ll be getting free healthcare and a pension till I die. Who’s gonna be laughing then?”

I set the water aside. “What do you have for me?” 

Hal looks around, even though we’re the only ones in the room, and unlocks the bottom drawer of his filing cabinet. Inside is an assortment of colorful drink pouches and two-handled cups, the kind made for children and geriatrics. He grins and pulls out a purple pouch labelled Sangriiia. “Try it.” 

If Hollywood were to make a realistic war movie, what you would see is hundreds of thousands of uniformed American soldiers rotating in and out of these regions of conflict every year, maybe five percent of them engaged in actual combat, the rest working within the walls of each base, masturbating and playing video games and cheating on their spouses in their free time, and in the background, you would spot the only constant: Hal, clicking a mouse and building his nest egg year by year. 

On screen, we celebrate the reluctant-but-noble soldier fighting for his country and the slick-talking international arms dealer whose amoral economic philosophy is his greatest asset. Really, it’s Hal holding us down in the Middle East, Hal with his easy demeanor and unflinching dedication to nothing.

I stab a straw into the pouch. It tastes like shitty boxed wine.

“The new postal platoon from Puerto Rico is shipping these in.” Hal points at my pouch. “That one’s on me. The rest are ten apiece.” 

“I could get five liters of this stuff for ten! Although that was in college,” I say after a beat, “so we’d have to adjust for inflation.”

“Sweetheart, you’re not going to find five liters of boxed wine out here.”

“I don’t even like wine.” 

“It’s all I’ve got right now.” 

The command team, in its effort to crack down on illicit substance use, conducted surprise room inspections this morning. I heard them banging on doors long before they reached my trailer, so I had time to pour the rest of my vodka out of my back window, which turned out to be unnecessary since the first sergeant, a three-time combat veteran who refuses to interact, unchaperoned, with any female soldier lest he be accused of “sexual whatever,” only gave my room a quick once-over from the doorway before moving on.

I take another sip to gauge the value of the drink, wondering if Hal will get butthurt if I keep haggling. I don’t want to risk damaging our relationship. Yet, on principle, I cannot allow myself to be fleeced by Halliburton Hal. 

“Don’t you make like six figures?” I venture.

“Didn’t your mother tell you it’s not polite to ask about income?” 

Hal is obviously unfamiliar with Chinese culture. 

“I’m operating on limited supply,” he continues. “My liquor guy is on leave for the next three weeks and the Puerto Ricans are being stingy. I’m barely turning a profit on this is what I’m saying.”

“I don’t know.” I hold up the pouch. “What if I get caught with this?”

“You want me to pour it in some Gatorade?”

What an amateur. “Hal, are you some kind of a savage? Anyways, this is way too dark to blend with other colors. It’d be obvious.”

“Don’t you have a solid Nalgene or something?” 

“Not on me.” 

Hal shrugs. “I don’t know what to tell ya, kid.” 

Three weeks. Three weeks without a drink is not a problem. I did it for two months when I first got here, before I met Hal. “How about five bucks?” 

“I can do eight.” 

“Don’t I get a military discount?”

“I’m already giving you a discount.” 

“The alcohol content alone makes this worth, per volume, way less. I’d have to drink half the pouch to get the same effect as one shot of vodka.”

“It’s your choice, captain. You’re not hurting my business.”

“You know anyone else with liquor?” 

He shrugs. “Try Waleed’s. I’ve been banned, but there’s a guy who trucks stuff in.”

“Thanks, Hal.” 

“No problem. Come back when you’re ready for the wine.” 

O

At night, when everyone is masturbating in their trailers, I drive the Hilux around the inner perimeter of the base. I drive slowly at fifteen miles per hour, feeling the jolt of every little rut that I hit, every aberration in the compacted dirt road. Sometimes I drive for just a few minutes, sometimes for an hour. When I’m in a contemplative mood, I feel as though I could cruise in circles forever, round and round along the wall. At night, the desert is a moonscape, a calm blue expanse. Guard towers punctuate the wall every hundred meters, and in those towers are Iraqi soldiers. We’re told that they’re in there, that they watch the outside, but I’ve never seen them. All I see when I look up at a tower are the dark windows. I always wonder, when I look up, if one of them is looking down at me.

About the Author

Connie Chen is a West Point graduate and US Army veteran. She is currently at work on her first novel.