Defense
A Short Story
Prologue
How did I get here?
I stare numbly into space as I hear my lawyer, a scruffy-haired public defender with permanent bags under his eyes, tell me through a pane of glass that my final stay of execution appeal has been denied. In one week, I am going to die.
This is not the first time I have stared down death. Only the first time it’s come with a definitive date attached.
The first time I know I will not win.
Part One: Soldier On
I joined the service because I wanted to serve my country. At least, that’s the first thing I tell people. And if I feel like being a little more honest, I add: and for college money. But the even more honest answer — the one I haven’t told anyone — is that I joined to prove I could hold my own. Growing up the only girl in a houseful of boys, and the “baby” at that, it kind of goes with the territory. After years of fighting to outdo my three older brothers in athletic prowess, I can’t help but enjoy the male recruits’ surprised looks when I fly through the obstacle courses, the murmurs of “damn” when I take out every target in marksmanship training.
After I conquer the 50-foot Warrior Tower, I decide I’ve earned a little bit of a breather before going into my final phase of Basic. It’s not much, but I treat myself to a couple of drinks at the club on base and lounge around almost until closing: a small indulgence for how hard I’ve been working. I start to stroll back toward my barracks, past a trio of guys yelling loudly and crudely, roaring drunk. I don’t pay them any mind until they’re suddenly standing abreast in front of me, blocking my path. I roll my eyes and start to push past them — and find myself being shoved up roughly against a wall.
In a flash they grab me from either side and pin down my arms. Instinctively my hand-to-hand training kicks in, but it’s three of them against one of me. I try to gasp out the word “stop” but can barely even hear myself. I feel something pushed up inside me. God, it hurts. For a merciful minute my body and mind go numb. And then it’s over.
Two months later I’m sitting in a hotel room a couple of cities away — just far enough to be anonymous — using my meager R&R, though I can hardly rest and sure don’t feel like recreating. I thought about going to see the base doctor, but that would mean telling people about the incident. Telling them I was weak. That I could not, after all, defend myself as well as any man. I had already imagined reporting it to my CO, trying and failing to imagine some way of saying it that wouldn’t lead to the inevitable conclusion that I was not cut out to be a soldier. So I did what a soldier does: I soldiered on, with grim-faced determination, through the bouts of nausea and bile, until I couldn’t avoid my sinking suspicion any longer. Yesterday that suspicion was confirmed. Tomorrow it will be over. Like the responses to enemy contact I learned in battle drills, it’s a simple matter of self-defense. If I couldn’t defend myself from those guys in my unit, I can at least have some control over the consequences.
After I check into the clinic, they call me back for what they call “counseling,” which feels more like a classroom lecture until the haze of information turns into a question. “I’m required by law to remind you that you have other options: adoption, parenting. Are you sure this is what you want?” She says it not like she’s expecting me to seriously consider the question, but cursorily, like she’s reciting a line from a play. I almost laugh. Because the real answer is hell no, I don’t want to be reduced to defending myself against a creature that’s even more helpless than I was. But I know what my line is in this script, and that’s not it. Swallowing that response, my mouth draws into a flat line as I give the expected answer.
The doctor in the procedure room is saying something about a speculum and a vacuum and removing pregnancy tissue. As for me, I’m just steeling myself. From my position on the table I see her looking intently at a screen that’s turned away from me so I can’t see. Suddenly she grimaces, then turns and mutters something to the two assistants in the room. I crane my neck to see, and I feel a hand gently come down on my shoulder, restraining. Automatically, I jerk away. My arm flies out and jostles the screen around. And for a few seconds, I see what they didn’t want me to see: this “pregnancy tissue” has a tiny human hand. And it too is jerking away from something. Trying helplessly, as I did, to defend itself.
In a flash they grab me from either side and pin down my arms. Instinctively my hand-to-hand training kicks in, but it’s three of them against one of me. I try to gasp out the word “stop” but can barely even hear myself. I feel something pushed up inside me. God, it hurts. For a merciful minute my body and mind go numb. And then it’s over.
They’re apologetic afterward, saying something about a trigger and keeping me safe. Safe from what, I wonder. But I don’t reply. I’m shaking like I was after the incident. At least this time I have another day to pull myself together. After that, there’s nothing to do but keep soldiering on.
Part Two: Disarmed
Two months into my deployment, I’m pacing around one of the watch points on the outer perimeter of the Operations Base. Night guard duty.
I don’t mind the night watch. It’s a break from the usual desert heat of the Nineveh Plain, and most of the time it’s been reassuringly uneventful. Truth be told, there’s a kind of thrill in being slightly on edge, as though my previous moment of weakness has become an advantage. Alone at night, on high alert with my M4 in my hands, I actually feel powerful.
The worst thing, even at night, is the dust. You never know when a sudden gust of wind or a surge from who-knows-where might obscure all but a few inches in front of your face. One of those surges is quickly building, making the sunrise hazy, but I know it’s getting near the end of my watch.
Through the thickened air I hear a sudden heavy footfall, then hard breathing. I snap around to see a crazed-looking man wielding a knife step directly into my path. He freezes, his eyes widening even further. I don’t wait. My right hand readies my weapon, and in the same smooth motion I step forward and reach for his right arm with my left, twisting hard, until he drops the knife. His open hand tries to jerk away, his feet pivoting outward, away from me. But I don’t know what he might do, and I don’t have time to think. I fire a shot into his abdomen, then another into his chest. I don’t want to stay and watch him bleed out, but I drop and search him for weapons and intel.
Nothing.
He was disarmed.
I submit the situation report at 0600 as usual. Most of it does look the same as usual, except for one line toward the end that reads: “enemy assailant dispatched.” I stare at it for a minute as questions start swirling in my head like the dust that clouds the air. Who was that guy? What was he doing there with no weapon except for that stupid knife in his hand? And in civilian clothes? Not that that tells you much out here. All I saw was a wild-eyed man with a knife. I saw a threat. And I acted in self-defense. But what did he see? Did he think he needed a weapon only to defend himself against me?
My discharge comes three years and two redeployments later. In my head, I’m still waiting to be relieved from guard duty. I try to look as calm and composed as possible when I go for the firearms training required to get my concealed carry permit, afraid it will raise eyebrows if I seem too jumpy, but it turns out I didn’t have much to worry about. My discharge papers are practically a golden ticket. The training is like going back to Basic — back when shooting was a theoretical exercise, a skill development like any other. Naturally, I breeze through it. They sign some forms and thank me for my service.
It still takes a few weeks for all the paperwork to come through, and in the meantime, nothing feels quite right. A few weeks without so much as a sidearm. I feel its absence like a missing limb. I’m more on the alert than ever, my whole body snapping toward every sound, hardly trusting myself to sleep. But as soon as I can get my protection, I keep thinking, everything will feel normal again.
And then I do. And it does, and it doesn’t. I thought sleep should come easier now, but it’s like my whole rhythm has gotten screwed up. After a few restless hours I give up, throw on a tank top and shorts, strap on my Glock underneath, and go for a jog.
The foot path is unlit and lined with shrubbery, but the night sky is clear. Through a rustle of foliage I hear a sudden heavy footfall, then hard breathing. I snap around to see a crazed-looking man wielding a knife step directly into my path. He freezes, his eyes widening even further. I don’t wait. My right hand readies my weapon, and in the same smooth motion I step forward and reach for his right arm with my left, twisting hard, until he drops the knife. His open hand tries to jerk away, his feet pivoting outward, away from me. But I don’t know what he might do, and I don’t have time to think. I fire a shot into his abdomen, then another into his chest. Before I even realize what I’m doing, I’m on my knees, patting him down, checking for weapons and intel. Nothing, except a wallet in his back pocket.
He was disarmed.
And — it hits me full force as I stare up into the red and blue flash of police lights — a civilian.
As one officer puts me in handcuffs, another takes out the wallet I found a minute ago. He is turned away as he speaks into his radio, but I hear him say the word “shooting.” I hear him say the word “victim.” I hear him say a name. I hear him say, “17-year-old male.” Not just a civilian. A minor. Then I hear the word “suspect.” Then my name.
The rules are different here. This kid’s death can’t be reduced to a line in a sitrep, it has to be explained by a public defender. Even though all I saw was another wild-eyed man with a knife. And I acted in self-defense. But that’s not enough this time. The rules are different here.
Epilogue
I guess this is where it ends.
In one week, I am going to die. Maybe my death will be the last one required. But then — required for what? I don’t know. Maybe nobody knows. Maybe it really won’t be the last at all. All I know is, in one week, I won’t have to think about it anymore.
