Operation Oleander (9780547534213) Read Online Free

presidents, like Lincoln and Monroe. Lisbon and Canton, cities, run east–west. On the coast, the Gulf of Mexico cuts into the post like a scimitar, leaving a curved scar on the beach. Sometimes the South Seas Road washes out along the shoreline near the airstrip and parade ground.
    I cut the corner on Madrid Street and look for my house half a block down. When we moved in, the administrative office called the concrete blockhouses “historic bungalows.” Mom called them “matchboxes.” Small and look-alike. Maybe one house has a carport on the right side and another has one on the left. Or maybe the trim’s painted a different color—army green or battleship gray. At first I could only find my house by the number 306 spray-painted on the curb. Or by seeing Cara’s big tricycle on its side in the driveway.
    That was last year. Now I can find it even if I’m running in the dusk of summer, flying ahead of mosquitoes, the sound of Meriwether laughing about a boy at the pool still in my ears.
    Straining to see my house, I pretend I’m looking at it for the first time. That it belongs to another military family and the gray house trimmed in green is unfamiliar. And I’ve never seen the green mold almost the same shade as the trim growing on the outside, near the drainpipes. That I don’t know about how the jalousie windows in the living room don’t close all the way or that at night, or after a rain, palmetto bugs slip in through the cracks. With Dad deployed, it’s my job to be brave and kill them so Mom doesn’t have to. So Cara doesn’t scream when she finds them crawling in the kitchen.
    Across the street, Mrs. Johnson’s sprinkler’s turned off. Despite the brightness, her curtains hang wide open. That usually means she’s peering out to see what’s happening. She always knows when our neighbor’s dog does his business near her mailbox.
    I unlock the door, half expecting to see Mrs. Johnson sitting on the sofa, drinking coffee out of Dad’s Texas Rangers mug. She’s over almost every day.
    No Mrs. Johnson. Not yet anyway.
    I plug in the computer in the kitchen and hit the on button. In the living room, I grab the remote and punch on the television, holding the volume down. Everything in the house sits quietly, waiting. Mom and Cara must still be asleep.
    I won’t wake Mom yet. Not till I know there’s something to worry about for real.
    Troops.
    Bomb.
    The words in my head repeat like music that won’t stop.
    Images on the television appear smoky and unclear. They don’t have all the details. It’s a developing news story. At the bottom of the screen the words “breaking news” blare in red letters. Smoke rises from a street area in the hazy background.
    I press the volume button.
    â€œA massive car bombing has damaged a Kabul neighborhood near a market destroyed weeks ago, in what appears to be a larger, better-coordinated attack on infrastructure. Fire still rages in the streets. Civilians, including children, and possibly U.S. soldiers reportedly are among the dead. A U.S. Army Humvee has been destroyed in the attack.”
    The station breaks for a commercial. I dash into the kitchen to check e-mail. No new e-mail. I press refresh and look again. Nothing. Maybe Dad hasn’t heard anything. Or, more likely, they’re on lockdown after the explosion. Maybe he couldn’t get to a computer to send an all-clear message.
    I dial Sam’s number.
    Busy.
    Then I try Meriwether’s number. It, too, rings busy. It’s like when the hurricane hit last fall and everyone got on their phones after the worst was over to tell relatives they were okay. The phone service got overloaded. Just busy signals for hours.
    In the living room, I jab the controls, searching for another channel. There has to be more information. One exclusive shows the actual explosion, which was captured by chance by a man who had