The ranch
A day later, the pictures of known American snipers came through via email from Juba’s control. He peered at them and, of several possibilities, recognized one: a sergeant’s face like his own, something clever, alive, even wise. but without aristocratic air or expectations beyond the practical. Not interested in luxury, not softened by too much pleasure, steadfast of soul and devoted to duty, unable to relax but for the company of those who’d earned the right to stand nearby. These men—American snipers, security advisors, Green Berets, and SEALs, men of experience and talent—had all acquired the patina of an Assyrian shield, a certain cast to the eyes, surrounded by a fissure of wrinkles, a stolidity of expression, a hardness to the jawline that extended to a mouth that would never yield to gentleness or humor unless deep in the bosom of family, friends, or co-believers. But this sergeant’s face completed Juba’s nightmare portrait of the American sniper who awaited him in the future. It was the face of his death.
He looked at the name, trying to make sense of it. Since its structural foundations diverged so from that of the Arabic, it seemed incoherent. It was simply an accumulation of sounds squished into a single utterance. It seemed to have no meaning.
“What does this mean?” he asked Alberto. “Bobleeswagger?”
“American names are simply labels. They don’t carry meanings and are not adjusted to celebrate an outstanding individual or origin or heritage. His name is Swagger because his father’s name was Swagger, and that is all that can be said.”
“But I have seen this word ‘swagger’ in texts. I did not bother to look it up. But it exists independent of this man.”
“It does. ‘Swagger’ is ‘a bold walk.’”
“A sniper would not swagger. A sergeant might, an aviator certainly. A general, without doubt. A sniper? Never. The sniper is quiet, calm, without vanity and drama. This fellow would not swagger.”
“They call this irony. Actually, if I understand irony, it’s not irony, it’s coincidence. But Americans love irony for some reason and they misuse the term promiscuously, as perhaps we do ‘honor.’ Irony is saying something but meaning the opposite, usually for the sake of mischief or wit. Thus, they love the fact—those who know him or of him—that his name is one thing and his character and skill another.”
“I suppose I understand. I would not have until I had reached this stage and achieved so many infidel kills. In mannerism: sedate; in action: bold. It is the best way for a man to be. Now I know him a little, know what created the man he is today. Bobleeswagger. He has delivered much death and knows it always sets him apart—even from his children. He knows he is used, sometimes cynically, by his masters for ends of which he has no knowledge and in which he has to believe on faith alone. But he adheres to duty nevertheless and will die doing it.”
“Is it him you are discussing or yourself?” asked Alberto.
“We are much the same, even if our gods are at war. I should have seen it earlier, as I now see its signs everywhere. And it explains everything. This isn’t an operation. It’s a game—the game—to be played out to the end. His death or mine.”
Alberto nodded. “Or both,” he said.