Authors: Brian Haig
So Phyllis allowed me five hours to go back to my apartment, rest, shower, pack some field uniforms and incidentals, and then I returned to the office for two fast hours of briefings. What this entailed was a rough sketch of a plan that, in Phyllis’s words, was still “evolving, still being perfected,” with an advisory that “an update will be provided upon your arrival.”
I thought about this and replied, “Said otherwise, I’m jumping out of a plane without a parachute, hoping the ground moves before my landing.”
“Don’t worry. Only the good die young.”
“You’ll live forever.”
She smiled, sort of. She then instructed, “Once you arrive in country, we can’t risk telephonic contact. You can’t imagine the number of collection systems operating inside and over Iraq these days. It is, of course, our number one collection priority, and our friends at NSA are as likely to intercept your emissions as the enemy’s. Once you’re in country, you’re on your own.”
I was already on my own, but kept that thought to myself.
Bian, I should mention, did not make an appearance, nor had she left me a short note wishing me good hunting, bon voyage, have a nice funeral, or whatever sentiment applied. Well, it didn’t really matter as the plan was for her to join me in Iraq in a day or so, unless she had an onset of common sense in between.
An elderly CIA doctor with quirky bedside manners administered three shots for diseases I’ve never heard of, issued me a bottle of malaria pills, and warned me to stay away from the local food, which wasn’t going to be a problem since, as I mentioned, pickles on hamburgers is for me adventurous gourmandism.
He pressed into my palm a box of prophylactics containing twenty-four rubbers, which I stared at in surprise. I’m as overconfident as the next guy, but I would be in country only two, maybe three days, max.
I asked, “Are these the largest size you have?”
He laughed, and even managed to act like this was the first time he had heard that line. It was a stupid joke, but those about to embark on suicidal missions tend to be humored. He informed me, “Hell, boy, these aren’t for your nozzle. Nobody over there gets any poon. These keep dust and rust out of your weapon’s nozzle. Ha-ha.”
Ha-ha. He was very funny. Seriously.
Phyllis then pulled me aside and offered a few parting words that were brief, yet so emotionally heartfelt and moving that I actually choked up a little. She said, “Don’t screw this up, or I’ll have your ass.”
Anyway, next stop was the parking lot, where an Army Black Hawk helicopter awaited. I climbed aboard, and we lifted off and departed for Delaware, a flight that lasted nearly an hour.
We flew at low altitude, and rather than dwell on the unhappy future, I occupied my mind observing the countryside below. America—truly, it is an amazing land, an inspiring land. The countryside was peppered with massive homes, many with large swimming pools, and what appeared to be outhouses, though probably they were cabanas or artists’ studios or secondary residences where the crazy aunts and aging parents are kept.
Like every society, ours is a confounding mixture of rich and poor, of haves and haveth-nots. And yet, I think, what makes us different from most is that here the poor can become rich, and the rich can become stinkingly richer or blow it all and end up cleaning all those swimming pools. This, I think, accounts for why we have so far limited ourselves to one revolution. Yet I also think we take for granted that because America has survived for over two hundred years, it will last another two hundred, ad infinitum. But the foundation is not as sturdy or impervious to harm as we once assumed, as nineteen homicidal maniacs showed us on September 11. That was supposed to be a wake-up call, the klaxons warning that bad people are out there, that they own the night, and we must, by courage, wiles, and force of arms, take it back. And yet here we were only three years after the fact, the lines at the recruiting stations had dwindled, and the sad but vacuous story of an over-the-hill pop star accused of diddling little boys had drowned out what brave men and women were doing in Iraq and Afghanistan.
It struck me, too, that this war has produced no galvanizing heroes, or none the American public has ever heard of—no Audie Murphys, no Doolittles, no Schwarzkopfs. As a nation we no longer glorify war, which, for a society, is probably healthy and good. But when we fail to honor our warriors, I wonder.
Not that Sean Drummond was harboring thoughts of returning a hero. The first time I went off to war, my father offered me one good piece of blunt advice: “A dead hero is still dead. Come home, son.”
Well, I was three for three so far, with a few nasty nicks on the last one, which was either a warning or a new lease on life. But every time you push it, you wonder if the fates are thinking, “Hey, this clown thinks he can beat the house odds; let’s lower the boom.”
There was no need to go through the usual passport or customs nonsense, nor did I require an updated visa or passport. The boarding ticket was my military ID with a set of freshly minted, albeit phony, orders, and the plane was a shiny United Boeing 747 on contract to Uncle Sam’s Air Force that was departing from Dover Air Force Base.
The flight was filled with about two hundred soldiers and a few Marines, men for the most part, a few women, nearly all young, most of whom had already endured six months in Iraq, were granted two weeks of stateside R&R—rest and recuperation—and were headed back. Picture two hundred people who had just spent two weeks screwing and drinking their brains out. This was not a happy plane.
I took my assigned seat beside an Army captain with the crossed rifles of the infantry on his collar and a nametag that read Howser. For the first hour, he said not a word—on his lap was a thick photo album he was flipping through, over and over, gazing thoughtfully at pictures of his lovely young wife and two little girls, twins actually, who were as cute as puppies.
With nothing better to do, I ogled the pictures over his shoulder. This intrusion did not appear to bother him, though eventually he did look up and ask, “Not married, sir?”
“Nope.”
“Maybe that’s better.”
“Maybe.”
“Nobody to worry about.”
“You mean nobody to worry about
you
.”
“Yeah . . .” Whereupon Captain Howser launched into a long, rambling discussion about his wife—Sara—his daughters—Lindsey and Anna—and how they had spent their two weeks of peaceful respite together. Very nice. Two guys, side by side on a long international flight, killing time with fond reminiscences and sappy anecdotes: Lindsey’s first steps, Anna’s first trip to the potty—her first
successful
trip—how Sara never complained about his absence, never lamented how lonely she got, never mentioned the anxiety attacks every time the doorbell rang with the possibility of bad news on the doorstep.
Indeed, this was what distinguished this flight, and certainly what separated these passengers, from any of the other half million international travelers flying over the world’s oceans at that moment. These passengers didn’t want to be here, weren’t looking forward to the destination, and nobody had a guaranteed return ticket.
I sometimes envy guys like Howser; they have somebody to come home to, somebody who wants them home. For some odd reason, Bian and the photograph of her beloved fiancé, Major Mark Kemble, popped to mind.
My gut instincts said that Bian’s seemingly illogical enthusiasm for this mission had something to do with him, mixed, perhaps, with a lingering feeling of injustice over her father and Vietnam, a war lost, ultimately, because America lost faith in the cause. These are powerful furies to carry in your heart and your mind—love and ghosts, the living and the dead, the man she loved today, and a war that stole her chance to love her father.
In the words of Tennessee Williams, the heart is the most stubborn organ. About women, that sounds about right. About men, he definitely overlooked a more stubborn organ.
Which opened the question of what motives placed me on this plane, headed off as I was to do something my instincts said was foolhardy, my legal judgment said was wrong, and in my professional judgment, bordered on suicidal.
I recalled my father’s favorite admonition: Never let your dick write a check. Good advice, Pop—but like most good advice, the devil is in the details.
In truth, Bian Tran had made a strong impression on me. Were I completely honest, I was a little smitten by her, and maybe a wee bit jealous of Major Mark Kemble. Indeed, this was a unique and spellbinding woman, a personified American dream. Arriving on our shores as a young child, impoverished, confused, homesick, and bereaved by the recent death of her father, she mastered a new language, absorbed a new culture, worked hard, marched through four years at that uniquely American institution, West Point, and, I suspected, were I to check her military file, her officer efficiency reports would be uniformly sterling.
In short, this was an intellectually gifted, forceful, driven lady. Also, as has been my experience with other immigrant children, I suspected that Bian Tran was a little hyperpatriotic regarding the ideals of her adopted land, inebriated by her sense of duty and, maybe, by her willingness to sacrifice for those she loved. It’s interesting. Over 10 percent of American soldiers in Iraq weren’t even U.S. citizens, just hungry young people trying to earn the dream.
Those of us born with the silver spoon of citizenry in our lips, I think, tend to be more convinced that we deserve our American birthright, particularly its fruits and indulgences over its labors and burdens. I did not think, though, that Bian was a mindless fanatic; in fact, I was sure that something else, something more—perhaps love, perhaps guilt, perhaps both—was driving her. I would have to keep an eye on that.
Also I didn’t trust Phyllis. Well, I didn’t trust the CIA. In my months in this job, I had found these were good people, patriotic, courageous, and enormously talented, who nearly always do what they think is best for the Republic. The problem is, they do it behind a curtain of smoke and mirrors; this isn’t always a temptation to good judgment, or worse, good results.
Anyway, Captain Howser recognized a pal at the front of the plane and excused himself. This apparently required an exchange of seats, as, shortly afterward, a man, large and burly, with the stripes and diamond of a first sergeant on his collar lumbered down the aisle toward me. The name patch on his chest read Jackson, and he looked at me and said, “You mind, Colonel?”
“If you have a photo album, I mind a lot.”
He laughed. “Divorced. Twice. How about I tell you what complete bitches they were?” Whereupon he fell into the seat and stretched out.
On his left shoulder, I observed the patch of the First Infantry Division—his current unit of assignment—and on his right shoulder, that of the Third Armored Division, a unit he served with in a previous war, or on a previous tour in this war. He was a combat veteran several times over with that weary, deromanticized, been-there-donethat look of somebody who was too tired to talk about it.
He said to me, “You’re JAG.” His eyes moved to my shoulder where there was no unit patch. “Where you assigned in Iraq?”
“I’m not.”
“Then why—”
“I’m a tourist. Maybe you can recommend a good hotel. A pool and spa would be nice. A good, well-stocked bar would be more than nice.”
“You’re nuts.” He laughed.
“Me? Who’s coming back a second time?” I informed him, “It’s temporary duty. Just in and out.”
“Oh . . .” I thought for a moment he was going to knock me out with his beefy fists and trade uniforms.
“Meeting a client,” I told him. That, in fact, was my cover, and should anyone ask, that’s also what it said on the phony orders in my breast pocket. Good covers are always based on fact, and in reality, there was a prisoner facing charges, though he hadn’t yet been assigned counsel. I had even briefly studied his case file to substantiate my cover; the guy didn’t have a prayer.
“What’s his tit ’n a ringer for?” Jackson asked.
This seemed like a good chance to practice my cover, and I replied, “Mistreatment of an Iraqi prisoner.”
“They’re real sensitive about that these days.”
“Sure are.”
“Ever since that Abu Ghraib thing.”
“Yep.”
“That was a bunch of wacko idiots, you ask me. What the hell were they thinking?”
“They weren’t. They were just doing.”
After a moment he asked, “Your guy, he do it?”
“Never touched the guy.”
“Uh-huh.”
“But I think the seven witnesses and the victim’s broken jaw from the rifle butt might prove a little tricky in court.”
He laughed. “I can see where that could be a problem.”
That about covered everything I knew, so to change the subject I asked him, “So how is it over there?”
He took a moment to contemplate this question. “Sucks.”
Any soldier who is happy in a war zone needs his head checked. I asked him, “But is it worth it?”
He understood what I was asking and replied, “Is now.”
“Why
now
?”
“You know Tennyson?” After a moment, he clarified. “Alfred . . . the English poet.” And then he quoted, “‘Ours is not to reason why, ours is but to do or die.’”
“ ‘Charge of the Light Brigade,’” I replied.
“Says it all.”
“Bullshit.”
He laughed. “Complete bullshit.” He twisted sideways and faced me. “A month ago I sent home two of my kids in body bags, and I damn sure give a shit that my soldiers are dead.” He soberly contemplated his combat boots. “Now it better be worth it.”
I looked out the window at the expansive blue sky, at the marshmallow clouds below, and off in the distance, I noted a jet contrail headed in the direction we had just come from. Possibly that sleek silver container also was filled with soldiers, their year at war over, their minds choked with memories of long, tedious days, of comrades wounded, mangled, and worse.
And it struck me that Bian was right about one thing—we
could
blow the lid off this war—and among some on this plane, I would end up man of the year, and among most, loathed.