Point Zero Is Fucked Up

La ruse la mieux ourdie

Peut nuire à son inventeur;

Et souvent la perfidie

Retourne sur son auteur.

(The most clever ploy

Can harm the hand behind it;

And often perfidy

Recoils to its author.)

—La Fontaine, Le Rat et la grenouille

The sky was leaden, and the darkness descended all the way to the ground. A mist hung in the air and one could not see far before one’s vision disappeared into a formless, gray wall of cloud in every direction. I could not believe the murk into which we had landed.

The change of the engines’ whine and our descent had awakened me five minutes before from a typically poor airplane sleep. I had the glassy eyes and wild hair, the slightly disjointed motions of just coming to, and had just enough time to glimpse raw, brown, snowy, and immense mountains as we spun in a tight turn and descended sharply. Point Zero.

There was commotion around the jet the instant we rolled to a stop. Our door immediately opened and the rendition squad leader hustled out of the plane. A convoy of 4x4 vehicles drove up within seconds. Bulky armed men piled out of them even before they had stopped. They established security quickly XXXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXX XXX XXXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXX.

The security men immediately started to load the 4x4s with packets from the jet. I descended the steps of the plane, wanting to help and to stay out of the way. I asked the rendition squad leader, “Should I take my bag now?”

“No, it’s better if you get it once they’re done. There’s plenty of time.” She went back to organizing the luggage and supplies.

I stood by the wing, to the side, and looked around. This was the main part of the airfield, near the control tower. XXXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXX XXX XXXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXX XXXX.1 I felt very exposed. Other than the security men and the 4x4s, there was no visible sign of life, but I could see only a short distance before the mist obscured everything.

XXXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXX XXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXX. Men hurried all around me. Various bags and duffels landed with a thud in the backs of the 4x4s.

Within moments the back door of the 4x4 nearest the jet slammed shut. “Okay. Let’s go!” The security men broke off what they were doing and hurried to vehicles. The four 4x4s careened to form a caravan. The jet crew was climbing the embarkation stairs to take off. The rendition squad leader was gone.

“Hey!” I shouted, starting to run to the jet stairs. “I have to get my bag. I’m staying!”

Goddamn it. I sprinted up the stairs and down the plane, grabbed my bag, and ran out. I had taken perhaps thirty seconds. The plane was closing the embarkation door behind me. The vehicles were about seventy-five yards away, lights shining in the growing darkness and mist, moving quickly toward the gate, one hard up against the next.

One of the men who had met us saw me. He raised his arms in a cross over his head. “Halt! Halt!” he called. “Halt! You’ve got one more XXX!”

He was closer than I to the convoy and managed to run up beside the lead driver’s window. He crossed his arms again. “Halt!” The caravan stopped suddenly. I chose a vehicle, opened the door, tossed my bags in, and jumped in myself, having half run and half walked in an effort to go fast, while not appearing too much a high-strung neophyte.

“Okay! That’s it,” I said. The two men inside said nothing. The one riding shotgun held an XXXX at the ready. They continued to look out the front intently. The last two men on the ground opened a gate.

“Come on, let’s get out of here. We’re just sitting ducks like this.” The driver’s voice was irritated, taut. We started to roll through the gate. We picked up speed into the wasteland around the airport. The men in the vehicle completely ignored me. XXXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXX. I glanced back and saw the jet accelerate down the runway and take off, lifting sharply as soon as it was airborne.

The 4x4 started to buck and bump and rock, surging through puddles and twisting to avoid two-foot-deep potholes. A couple of minutes went by in silence, but for the revving of the motor and the crashes of the jeep. There were no people in sight, just buildings every so often. XXXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXX XXXXXXX. I stared out the windows astonished as we bounced along and thought of my college roommate from decades earlier, who through a haze of whiskey used to gaze out our living room windows on the Charles River, declaiming from T. S. Eliot’s The Waste Land: “All about is stony rubbish and a heap of broken images where no branches grow.”

I thought enough time had gone by for the new guy to say something and not disturb some task or danger I did not perceive.

“This place looks worse than Burundi,” I said. There was a one- or two-beat pause. No one had even glanced at me yet.

Rain started to fall. Mist formed on the windshield. Then the guy in front of me spoke, staring ahead. “This place is fucked up, man. Point Zero is fucked up.” I found that I could not open my window XXXXXXXXXXX XXXX XXXXXXXXXXX XXX.

The land was strewn with football-size stones everywhere. It was a desert-steppe moonscape, XXXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXX XXXXX. The driver turned the wheel sharply.

“Shit! XXXXXXXXXXX X! Look at that!” The car jerked and the tires of the 4x4 passed only a couple of feet from it. XXXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXX XXX XXXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXX XXXXXXXXXXX X.

“Let’s go, let’s go! Let’s get out of here!” he said, angry and anxious. The windshield wipers didn’t work right. The murk and ruins were smeared on the windshield and we could see only distorted blurs of gray and brown out the front of the 4x4.

“Fuck,” the guy sitting in front of me cursed.

I found that all my drives on this “road” were like this, although I would travel with men who were less on edge.

1 The deleted passage describes what were to me alarming surroundings.