In a wine bar in Dulles, three Blackwater medics were on their way back for more Afghanistan sand. One was a slouching, rotund former psy-ops interrogator in a huge bright blue golf shirt. He had a round, scruffed head and he didn't like making it talk. He went to Atlanta, became a firefighter and medic. But he was bored with Peachtree living and re-upped. This time for a Blackwater salary. No fool. His friend was a nurse who browsed iTunes on a tablet listening to one story after another from the third medic. She didn't want "mass cassh." The third, a wired bundle of caring energy, wore khaki pants, good hiking shoes, a green-checked, button-down shirt, and a large black watch. His tight black hair was sharp and his skin deep bronze. "So, yeah," he was saying, "the first day I was in Kandahar, I was walking along the street to our station post. Two Afghan guards were changing duties, you know, one coming off and the other coming on. Well, they got in an argument. You know what about? They had both put their AK's down and got confused about whose was whose. One just took out a knife and stabbed the guy straight up here, then here, and here." He stabbed--straight up under his chin--his right flank--and left abdomen. "Blood was everywhere. There were two South Africans with me, and I said, 'You ever treat a pneumothorax?' And they said no, so I said, 'Well you're going to now, cuz his lung is punctured.' Some other guys chased down the stabber and tackled him. We shipped the guy off to Kabul. He survived. That was my first day there. Two guys just decide to fight." The stream-of-consciousness continued until he took a phone call and sauntered off, still talking. The nurse, not looking up, "He's got a great resume."
