Wunderland was home to indigent workers living five and six to a trailer. It also housed parolees and aging retirees whose monthly checks often came up short. The retirees made do by skipping meals and leaving the heat and air conditioning off. You could move into Wunderland and just about disappear, which was Jim’s real point.
But Jeremy had once told me something simple and different about why he lived there. He said Wunderland was the only place he could afford where he could walk outside and be looking at nothing but blue sky and mountains. He loved the desert sky. I thought about that a moment then pushed forward.
“Jeremy told me a story tonight about his discharge that I hadn’t heard.”
“Oh, no, here we go.”
“Do you remember a twenty-four-year-old American schoolteacher named Hakim Salter who was killed in a Pakistani village in a drone strike?”
“Beatty talked to you about Salter?”
“He just did, but also said his orders were never talk to anyone.”
Jim was quiet, then said, “They were and it didn’t happen the way Beatty says it did.”
“I haven’t told you what he said yet.”
“You don’t have to. I’ve talked enough with him about it. There were much worse drone strikes. Beatty had almost a thousand kills. I don’t know why he had so much trouble with that one. The Salter kid shouldn’t have been there to begin with. He was told not to go. Hell, the State Department contacted the family and warned them the area was too dangerous.”
“Beatty told me the strike was delayed until Salter walked back outside into the courtyard.”
When Jim spoke again his voice was slower, and the upbeat note he’d answered the phone with was gone.
“The targets were in a courtyard and Salter walked into the house and then and only then was the go given. Not before. There was no long delay, and as you know, pilots don’t make the call. It’s made above us. We know it’s not always right. Like everything else in life, mistakes get made. With drone strikes, the order comes and you execute. You don’t second-guess. It’s not our decision. In fact, some of the officers giving the orders think they should get the kill, not the pilot. The pompous fucks really believe that, but nothing is like pressing the trigger. What happened to Jeremy wasn’t about Hakim Salter. It was about being on trigger one time too many.”
“He said that tonight. The Salter strike was the one that put him over the top.”
“Well, there you go, from the man himself in his own words. He’s starting to see it.”
“Were you there for the strike that killed Hakim Salter?”
“Was I in the same flight trailer? No, I wasn’t in the trailer, but after Jeremy had his breakdown I was briefed. When Salter came back out into the courtyard of the house, the missile was already in the air. It was too late.”
“So he was in the courtyard and went inside, and they thought he’d stay inside?”
Jim sighed. This was the absolute last thing he wanted to do right now, but I’d spent a year and a half trying to help Beatty without ever hearing about this. Why was that?
“They had followed and tracked these Taliban guys for months, Grale. Finally all of them were together in the courtyard. That’s when the go was given.”
“That’s what you got from your briefing?”
“Yes.”
“Beatty tells a different version.”
“No kidding, but what I just told you actually happened. Look, I’ll see you when you get here.”
“All right, and I’m not far away. Sorry to do this to you—one last question and it’s a quick one. Do you know a Phil Ramer? Beatty told me Ramer was an Aussie pilot on sensor and that I should talk to him.”
“You should talk to him?”
“That’s what he said.”
“Why should you talk to Ramer? You’re not investigating. The launch was investigated and it’s done. I don’t know why Beatty is back on this.”
“Maybe he never left it.”
“Ramer was on sensor. He shipped home right after, so if you want to find him, look in Australia. But why are you digging into this? That strike has already been analyzed every which way, and nothing is going to change.”
I didn’t answer fast enough, and Jim said, “Hey, your sister is helping the Hullabaloo driver carry the cake in and she’s waving at me. I need to go take over for her. There are five or six kids here waiting for it, and then we’re going to boogie over to the casinos to watch fireworks. I’ll throw a burger on the grill for you.”
He broke the connection, and I turned onto Lake Mead Boulevard with more questions than answers about the Salter strike. What followed was a string of red lights that delayed me even more, but the Alagara was only about a mile away. I’d be there soon.