Authors: Brian Haig
First Sergeant Jackson closed his eyes. Field soldiers have the stamina of babies, and within thirty seconds he was comatose and snoring loudly. Time for business. I opened my legal briefcase, withdrew a thick sheath of papers, took a moment to clear my mind, and dug in.
I recalled the old Army saying—a plan lasts until the second it’s implemented. I have found this to be generally true, but I think it’s important to have one, to have a baseline, and if you’ve really done your homework, workable options for when the poop flies. What we had in this case was seat-of-your-pants bullshit.
The basic idea—what the Army calls a POW snatch; POW standing for prisoner of war, and snatch implying the goombah in question might not be a willing participant. Such operations are always risky, as bad guys invariably hang around their own neighborhoods, usually in the company of other bad guys, and you have to be quick or
you
end up on the short end of the stick. There are, in fact, times when the roles become reversed, but it’s bad luck to dwell on that—and hard not to.
In the interest of airtight secrecy, rather than rely on career Agency types or even uniformed military who might become nosy about Sean Drummond and Mr. Ali bin Pacha, the heavy-lifting stage of this mission was going to be done by private contractors employed by Phyllis.
These were people who had done work for the Agency before, and they passed the entrance exam; they were still alive to do another job. They are not mercenaries, mind you, and they are sure to point that out to you; they are patriotic Americans, mostly former Army and Navy Special Forces types who are still serving their country, and it just happens to be for more money.
And why not? They get one to two hundred grand a year, less Mickey Mouse, bosses they can talk back to, and when they’re tired of it, they cash out and walk. This might be a workable option for Drummond’s second career.
On the brighter side, they are professionals, usually handpicked, highly experienced, and they don’t get jobs unless they produce bang for the buck.
Oh, yes—that unsettling matter of my trust issues with my boss. I wasn’t completely paranoid, yet I was aware of another big advantage of private contractors. They aren’t accountable to anybody except the name on the paycheck, no questions asked. Not that I expected a bullet in the back of my head. It was a factor to bear in mind, though.
Of course, Phyllis would never do that to me. We were friends. Right?
Anyway, before I departed I was given the name of my contact, Eric Finder—a hopeful surname for this job—the location for our meeting, and even passwords we would exchange to confirm our bona fides. How cool is that?
Inside my legal case were street maps and satellite photos of Falluja—where Ali bin Pacha was in residence—a few thick binders filled with information about that city, and various threat assessments produced by in-country CIA types regarding a man named Ahmad Fadil Nazzal al-Khalayleh, who was a Jordanian by birth, nom de guerre al-Zarqawi, and some of his known associates—Mr. Ali bin Pacha’s name, incidentally, was nowhere on that list.
The general thrust was this: Mr. al-Zarqawi ran a rough outfit. The exact size of his organization was unknown, and ditto for its makeup and exact membership. It was presumed to include a small, die-hard, highly trusted cadre, a few hundred warriors and kamikazes, and probably a few thousand sympathizers who provided safe houses, transportation, odd jobs, logistics, intelligence gathering, and whatever.
These people were a mixture of Iraqis and foreign talent, and it was notable that the local Sunni populace were largely on his side, not ours. In fact, Zarqawi was regarded locally as a Robin Hood type, despite taking money from the rich and giving only death to the poor. Lately, however, killing Americans was becoming too risky and difficult, so he had shifted his sights to murdering Iraqis, often indiscriminately, which was wearing thin with some locals.
Here’s what was known: The structure of his organization was basically cellular and compartmentalized; small groups, connected vertically, not laterally, so no hands knew what the others were doing. A number of these cells had been captured or infiltrated; yet, to date, nobody had fingered the man himself, which was interesting.
A twenty-five-million-buck warrant was on Zarqawi’s head; this in a part of the world where two grand was enough to sell your adorable, beloved daughter to a stinky camel farmer. This suggested that al-Zarqawi was either very good, very feared, very lucky, or very ruthless, none of which are mutually exclusive.
Nothing that I read here was news, of course. As with the rest of the conscious American public, I knew about Mr. al-Zarqawi and about his more flamboyant idiosyncrasies. He liked seeing his masked face on the tube, and he knew how to sweep Nielson ratings, as our broadcaster friends say. His particular form of attention-seeking behavior was making home videos of himself beheading helpless captives, which tells you he has a few big issues with Western civilization. Also, if Sean Drummond fell into his hands, I might be in for a very dramatic, one-act theater career.
Anyway, after two hours of reading and studying, I remembered I had slept only three hours the previous night. I stretched, put my papers away, locked my briefcase, and within seconds was sound asleep.
I would like to say I rested fitfully and experienced pleasant dreams, but when I awoke, here’s the dream I remembered: I was kneeling on a small dark mat, three tall figures stood behind me, black masks covered their heads, coarse tape covered my mouth, a hand was tugging my head backward, and I could see a large, crisp blade hovering in front of my throat, moving closer . . . closer . . . and . . .
W
hat jarred me awake were the wheels of the big 747 bouncing and skidding on hard tarmac. I opened my eyes, looked out the window, and got my first clue of something gone wrong—the airport. It shouldn’t be, yet this airport looked familiar, and I knew I had been here before. The cobwebs cleared, and I knew where I was: Kuwait.
The second tip-off was the pilot announcing in that smooth, everything’s-just-fucking-fine tone, “Ladies and gentlemen, thank you for flying United. For your safety, we were diverted from Baghdad Airport, which is currently experiencing a serious threat from surface-to-air missiles. I apologize for any inconvenience. When you deplane, you’ll be met by representatives from the armed forces who will connect you with ground convoys heading north.”
This isn’t the kind of announcement you hear on domestic routes. But this guy was so slick, for a moment I thought I was on a normal flight and we were about to be promised free food vouchers to mollify our discontentment, or whatever.
His tone then turned funereal, and he added, “It has been our distinct honor to have you on board and . . . and . . . and from the bottom of my heart, on behalf of the entire crew . . . God bless you all.”
You could almost hear a collective gulp from his passengers. A simple good luck would’ve been sufficient, thank you.
Anyway, he parked his big plane in the middle of a large empty ramp, off to the right of the runway where there were no other aircraft, and neither was there a terminal. The night was pitch-dark, yet the airport was well lit, and I could observe trucks moving around, all of them American military vehicles.
I checked my watch, which I had already preset to local time—
4:00 a.m. An elevated stairway was rolled up, and we deplaned and waited in a large gaggle on the tarmac while our duffel bags and personal gear were unloaded down a long rolling ramp and arranged in a long line for pickup.
Several officious-looking types with MP brassards on their arms and clipboards and flashlights in their hands began corralling the troops and loudly directing them to various holding areas, depending on their units and ultimate destinations in Iraq. The Army has a reputation for efficiency that is rarely merited, which is why “Hurry up and wait” is the unofficial Army motto. Except when it’s to the Army’s advantage; then the anal minds kick in and usually get it right.
First Sergeant Jackson and I shook hands and wished each other good luck. I quietly separated myself from the group, confident that Phyllis had learned about this unexpected diversion and made the proper arrangements.
I wouldn’t trust Phyllis with my life. But I definitely trust her to get me where
she
wants me to be.
The weather was nice, incidentally, mid-seventies, without a hint of rain, almost balmy. Definitely nicer than October in Washington. Bermuda was nicer still.
After a moment of wandering around I observed a soldier using a flashlight to brighten a handwritten sign that read, “LTC Drummond.”
I approached him and confessed that that would be me; in response, he offered a sloppy salute and informed me that his name was “Carl Smith . . . PFC Smith, Eighteenth Transportation Battalion,” and explained he would be my chauffeur for the drive up to Baghdad.
I spent a moment doing the senior officer thing, asking Smith a few shallow, innocuous questions, as he did his respectful subordinate thing, offering brief, perfunctory replies. The senior officer is expected to show a personal interest in his or her subordinates, regardless of how temporary or ephemeral the relationship. On the surface, this translates as concern, and establishes rapport. But neither has it escaped my notice that the normal nature of these inquiries— married status, hometown, family, that kind of thing—correspond to exactly the data an officer needs to know for a next-of-kin letter.
Anyway, Carl Smith. He was dark-haired and dark-skinned, and he informed me that he was thirty-two, yes, a little damned old for his rank, divorced—damned happy about that—an Alabamian—damned proud of that—and, like many of his peers, in a fit of angered idealism had rushed into an Army recruiter’s station the day after September 11—a decision he now looked back on as damned impetuous.
He appeared unusually fit for a transportation guy, but probably Carl had a lot of free time to spend in the weight room. Booze is prohibited for soldiers inside the war zone, and Arab women aren’t turned on by Christian men. When all else fails, you turn to the worst vice: exercise.
He led me to a dust-coated humvee; I threw my duffel in the back, climbed into the passenger seat, and off we went at a good clip. Military humvees, incidentally, aren’t the gaudy gas munchers that are so la-di-da among Hollywood’s spoiled and beautiful. They’re diesel for one thing, but also they’re more primitive and entirely lacking in bling, such as sound muffling, air-conditioning, or entertainment systems of any form, with seats that are ergonomic atrocities. But as our Chinese friends say, a thousand sins can be overcome by one great virtue; I was relieved to see the one accessory that counts in these parts, the newest up-to-date armor.
We drove out of the airport—Smith flashed his military ID to clear us through the checkpoint—then moved at high speed along a black tarmac road for about an hour, connecting with a military convoy headed north, up the infamous Highway 8, to Iraq.
This convoy was a long mixture of fuel tankers, heavy trucks loaded with large green containers, flatbeds carrying replacement Bradley Fighting Vehicles, and, interspersed among these vulnerable noncombatant vehicles, an Armored Cavalry troop with tanks and Bradleys to chase the Indians away.
Carl informed me, “We’ll hang at the end. Don’t get no better than that.”
“Fooled me. We’re getting all the dust and fumes.”
“Yeah . . . well the IEDs—the roadside explosives—usually they target the front or middle of convoys. Causes a traffic jam with stationary targets to shoot at.” He added, “Dust or shrapnel? You’re the colonel.”
“Which is worse?”
He smiled agreeably, and tossed me goggles for my eyes and a green rag that I tied around my nose and mouth, cowboy style.
Fortunately, Carl Smith proved to be the untalkative type, though— less fortunately—not the silent type. He spent nearly the whole trip whistling country tunes—like many backcountry southern males, he had perfected a loud and penetrating whistle—while I alternated between nodding off, studying the contents of my legal case, sticking my fingers in my ears, and wishing I had a gun to pop this guy, or myself. I hate country music.
Around midafternoon, he handed me lunch; having slept through the meal on the plane, I was lightheaded with hunger. The meal was an Army MRE—Meal, Ready-to-Eat—proof that the Army has a sense of humor, despite what you hear.
One bite, and I remembered what I don’t miss about being a field soldier.
Anyway, the drive lasted about thirteen hours, and, aside from passing through one large city early in the trip, for the most part we traveled through terrain that could charitably be described as monotonous and awful—flat desert, a balance between beauty and cruelty, until we were deep inside Iraq proper, at which point we saw more frequent signs of life: palm trees, shabby buildings, caved-in huts, wrecked and abandoned cars on the roadside, and sometimes, in the distance, a remote village presumably built around a well or an oasis, or a Taco Bell. Just kidding about that last one. But why would anybody live here?
I was reminded of those desolate little American towns in the middle of the Mojave Desert, and where once there was a reason for them to exist in such remote and inhospitable settings—gold mines, or borax, or Pony Express stops—they had long since become abandoned, sweltering white elephants. Some have become picturesque ghost towns with tumbleweeds billowing through the streets, though a few still are populated by quirky, eccentric folk—loners, flakes, and hermits—exiles from the hurly-burly of American life, or perhaps perps hiding out from the cops. But what were the people in these isolated little Iraqi villages like?
I could not fathom the gap between people who live like this and the typical young American soldier who would experience a monumental fit were he deprived of his PlayStation, cell phone, chat rooms, cable TV, and fast food. Indeed, all of these things now existed here, on the military bases, and soldiers returning from a day battling insurgents spend their evenings e-mailing their families and one-andonlys, playing video games, and browsing porn, which is, I suppose, as healthy a mixture as any to put it behind you and get your head straight.