“Why?” the journalist asked. Manny leaned in a little, interested in spite of himself at where this was all going to lead.

“Perhaps,” Hamid said, “you should read a bit more about this ‘Heavenly Kingdom.’ They reject all autonomous technology. They even use remote human pilots for their drones, like its two-thousand-and-fucking-three. That’s why our skies are always clear. We jam them.”

Reggie asked, “Is it possible they found some way to hack your defense system?”

Hamid laughed. “We bought this system from the Israelis. If you’re telling me one of the Martyrs’ Brigades has a hacker who can crack that, then I’m the King of Albuquerque.”

“But something still went wrong,” Reggie insisted.

Hamid’s smile turned cold. “This is war, Mr. Reggie. It’s mostly things going wrong.”

That’s where the line of questions petered out. Reggie asked them for access to the security footage from the destroyed checkpoint, and Colonel Milgram agreed to send it over.

“We’d like to speak to the survivors as well, if possible,” Manny interjected, not waiting to see if the journalist would ask. He knew those men were all stationed behind the line now, which would make for a safer, easier rest of the day than heading up to the wire.

“Of course,” Colonel Milgram said, with a smile to Manny. They said their goodbyes, and then Major Clark walked them out to their waiting Toyota. The Texas heat hit like an oven as they exited, and Manny was glad they’d be spending most of the rest of their day indoors.

DeShawn clapped a hand on Manny’s shoulder as he lit one of his new cigarettes. “It’s good to see you again Emmanuel,” he said. And then he smiled at Reggie. “And it’s nice to meet you, my British friend. I’m sorry you’ve come to the front at a boring time.”

“Why?” Reggie asked.

“Because this,” DeShawn gestured at the gun emplacements and loitering militiafolks of the command post, “this is not war, not really. Your job is to help your people, children of peace and plenty, understand what is going on here. You must teach them the language of war. And to paraphrase a dead poet, the language of war is a language made of blood. To be spoken, it must be earned.”

There was an awkward pause. A little bit of the blood drained from the journalist’s face. You old nutty fuck, Manny thought, with more amusement than fear. “Classic DeShawn,” he said, and laughed to ease the tension. The Major bid them both a good day, hugged Manny, and sauntered off back to the command post. Smoke from his cigarette curled up into the air behind him as he walked. Manny’s eyes lingered on it for a second before he turned back to Reggie.

“Ready to go?” he asked, chipper as he could manage.