Authors: Brian Haig
“You really don’t. Take a moment and think about it.”
I took that moment. The easy answer was that despite not doing this my way, destroying Zarqawi’s supply of money might shorten the war, might save American lives, and if nothing else, would take one more jihadi asshole off the street. It matters not what branch you wear on your collar, what matters are the words printed on your chest: U.S. Army. Killing bad guys is what soldiers do.
But I knew there was an answer that was more complicated, and probably less noble. Two words: Bian Tran.
She looked at me a moment in the darkness. I couldn’t read her thoughts; I didn’t need to, to know what she was thinking:
Why isn’t this schlub taking this excuse to get off this runaway train?
She then did something that took me completely by surprise. She leaned forward and kissed me. She backed away, and we stared into each other’s eyes a moment. She said, “You’re nuts.”
I was, indeed, nuts. She took my hand and led me back to Finder, who was conferring with two other men who had materialized out of the night.
Smith, still standing vigil beside the car, continued to spin on his heels and scan our surroundings. This was one paranoid citizen.
Finder introduced the new gentlemen and we shook hands. They were named Ted and Chris, and they looked like inflated balloons from World Wrestling Entertainment, large, immodestly muscular, and unlike their boss, these guys looked like they were manufactured to be here. They also were dressed in dark civilian clothing, which let them blend in with the locals, and also happened to be the right wardrobe for night action.
Chris smiled and said, “Nice to meet you.” Ted grunted.
Finder said to Bian and me, “Have you straightened out your . . . difficulties?”
Bian allowed me to do the talking. I replied, “A minor misunderstanding. Here’s the deal, Mr. Finder. We go in together.”
“No problem.”
“Major Tran is fluent in Arabic, and she will be the only one to speak with the prisoners. You need to tell your men this.”
He smiled. “You mean we can’t tell them to drop their weapons or you’re dead, motherfucker?”
“Does that work?”
“Fire a few warning shots into their head first and . . . yeah, usually.” He laughed.
Bian clarified, “The colonel is referring to any form of interrogation about their identity. Once the occupants of the house are in your custody, your men will leave us alone with the prisoners. There will be a brief interrogation to confirm their identities, and I’ll handle it.”
He thought about that a moment. “I’ll pass the word.” After another moment he announced, “My turn.” He looked at me and asked, “Are you really a lawyer?”
“Are you really here voluntarily?”
He shook his head. “I don’t understand why you’re here, and I won’t ask.” He continued to shake his head. “A lawyer and an MP. I should’ve held out for a hundred grand each.”
“We can handle ourselves,” Bian informed him.
Finder acknowledged the absurdity of this statement with an easy smile. “Let me be blunt. My priority is my people. I will not let you put them at risk. If need be, I’ll shoot you, or leave you in Falluja, which is worse. Are we clear?”
His tone sounded perfectly reasonable, which made it a little scary, like he meant every word. Oxymoronically, I was starting to like Finder. He seemed intelligent and businesslike, certainly there was no confusion where he was coming from, and I noted that his men treated him respectfully, if not affectionately. With the best leaders, loyalty up is matched by loyalty down, and the bottom line of loyalty down is to take care of your own first. This would be great if we were only part of his unit.
He allowed us to ponder this warning, then informed us, “You don’t need to know how this is going down, and I won’t waste an explanation. Here’s what you do need to know. If you get separated, you’re on your own. The target building is in the industrial section, on the west side.” He looked at me. “Carl told me you have maps. Bring them. It’s a small city, head due east, and if you walk fast, you’ll make the outskirts within twenty minutes. Stay in your costumes till then. But once outside, ditch those Arab clothes. The city’s surrounded by Marines, they’ve lost a lot of people, and this has put them in an ugly mood. They shoot first and sort it out later. It will be good for your health for them to see those American Army uniforms. Understand?”
I looked at Bian and she nodded. He continued, “I told the Agency you need to have compasses and a thousand dollars each in your pockets.” He said, “Show me,” and we did.
He said, “The money is life insurance. The Fallujans are less bribable than most Iraqis, but you never know. If you run into a terrorist, the money won’t help; you’re just tipping your own killer. If it’s an ordinary citizen, on the other hand, five hundred bucks could buy a few minutes of silence. Start by insisting you’re a reporter—they all know that word—then press money into their hands as fast as you can.”
“Has this ever worked?” Bian asked.
He looked thoughtful, then said, “Not that I know of.” He laughed.
He handed us each napkin-size American flags. “If you see American troops, wave these. It helps.” He said, “My people will handle the assault and apprehension. You’ll stay with the fire support element. Do you have a problem with that?”
Ordinarily I don’t like being told what to do, but one should always make an effort to oblige his host. Also, on a more noble note, the assault element is definitely where the risk is. I said, “No problem.”
“We’ve been told to take everybody alive, and that’s what we’ll attempt to do,” he continued. “No money-back guarantee, however. If they’re all asleep, we’ll have a good chance. If they have one or two guards, well . . . those we’ll have to take out. But if your man is a big shot—you wouldn’t be here if he weren’t, right?—he won’t be pulling guard duty. These Arabs are very hierarchical; leading by example to these people means getting more rest, eating better, and taking less risks than the foot soldiers.”
He turned to Carl Smith and ordered, “Trunk of my car. Get their weapons, first aid kits, vests, and night-vision goggles.” He turned back to Bian and me. “The goggles and first aid kits are standard Army issue. I assume you know how to use them.” We did not contradict that, and he asked, “Are you comfortable with M16s?”
We both nodded.
“Good. The safeties remain on till I tell you otherwise. Once again, until
I
tell you. I don’t want either of you accidentally shooting my people . . . or yourselves.”
Obviously, Bian and I had a few credibility issues. I said, “Carl mentioned safe houses inside Falluja—why don’t you show me their location on the map?”
“Should it come to that, my people will lead you to one.”
In other words, were Bian or I separated, incapacitated, or captured, Finder didn’t want us possessing the ability to expose his team. As I warned Bian, the team came first. And Drummond and Tran came second. This meant last.
Time to exert the power of the purse, however, and I said, “Okay, now you listen to me, Mr. Finder. If Major Tran or I fail to make it out with our prisoner, no money. Understand? The prisoner, and both of us, alive—that’s the deal. Protect us, or this whole thing is a waste of your time.”
He smiled and suggested, “I think your problem will be a little bigger than mine.”
“Not if one of us survives. Do you understand what I’m telling you?”
We stared at each other a moment.
He said, “I guess I do.”
“Point two. The ingress and assault are your show. Neither I nor Major Tran will interfere. But once our target is in custody—once we start the egress—new rules. Your advice will be welcome, but I’m in charge and you’ll obey my instructions.”
“If they aren’t stupid or suicidal.”
“They won’t be.”
He looked at me a moment, unconvinced, then said, “Anything else?”
“The major and I travel in and out together. Who’s transporting us?”
“That would be me. I have a few more instructions to pass on, about rally points if we get split up, how we handle casualties, that sort of thing. I’ll explain it all during the drive.”
So the ground rules were set. He spoke into his microphone and began instructing his team, all of whom began racing to their respective cars. I checked my watch: 1:30.
In another thirty minutes, one way or another, this thing would be starting, or ending unhappily, and I would be traveling home in a bag.
Bian squeezed my hand and whispered, “Thank you.” Smith handed us civilian bulletproof vests, weapons, six magazines of ammunition, flashlights, first aid kits, and night-vision goggles.
Bian and I stripped off our abayas, slipped the vests over our heads, hooked the first aid kits to our belts, stuffed the side pockets of our battle dress trousers with spare magazines, and then redressed.
I said to Bian, “What if this guy’s not there?”
“Think optimistic.”
“I am.”
T
he car was a red Toyota Corolla, and Bian and I sat, cheek to cheek, in the cramped backseat, Finder and the hulking muscle known as Ted in the front.
Virgin soldiers and virgin girls on the verge of first action tend to respond alike. For the soldier, there is a natural anxiety and a corresponding adrenaline rush, which tends to evoke displays of juvenile bravado, telling silly jokes and laughing too emphatically at the punch lines. A girl tends to react by asking silly questions, like, “Do you
really
love me?” Apparently there were no virgins in this car—so there were no bad jokes—but you could cut the fear and anxiety with a knife.
Now there was no traffic on the road, and Finder drove with his headlights off and his night-vision goggles on. This road was, for the most part, straight, and he drove briskly and confidently; with all the potholes, it made for a bumpy and uncomfortable ride.
After another ten minutes he began pumping the brakes when, directly to our front, four lights flashed on and illuminated our car. He came to a complete stop, and sat perfectly still.
About thirty meters to our front, I noted, two humvees blocked the middle of the road. A nervous voice in English yelled, “Driver . . . out of the car now. Hands up, and step out of the car.”
Bian whispered for my benefit, “Nighttime roadblock. They’re edgy. Don’t even breathe.”
I didn’t move, but I did breathe.
Finder shifted the car into park, twisted around, and said to us, “Marines. I’ll handle it.” He opened his door, stepped out, and stood, frenetically windmilling his arms over his head.
An American voice yelled, “Do you speak English?”
Finder replied, “Isn’t that a stupid fucking question? Would I be obeying your directions otherwise? Name’s Finder. Get Captain Yuknis.”
This was not the same as the old World War II drill where the Marine asks, “Who won the ’42 World Series?” and the Jap is betrayed by his cultural ignorance and blown to smithereens. Without authorized passwords, however, you have to improvise, and a little colloquial profanity is as American as apple pie. A long moment passed without a response before a voice yelled back, “He’s napping.”
“Well, hell, boy, roust him. Tell him Finder’s here.”
I could overhear young American voices debating whether to trifle their captain with this. This appeared to be part of a Marine infantry company—about 180 short-haired hardcocks—and in units such as this, a captain is the commander, and he might not tell God what to do, though God pays close attention when he speaks.
After a moment, Finder yelled, “For Christsakes—would you hurry it up? Wake him up, or I’ll have your asses.”
A moment later I observed a gentleman, tall and lanky, striding through the trail of lights. As he drew closer, I observed the profile of a helmet and fatigues, which were Marine style, and overheard him inform Finder, “Dammit, Eric, I was having my first wet dream since I got in country. Got a woodie the size of Mount Everest. This better be good.”
“Mount Everest? A white boy? Yeah . . . bullshit.” Finder laughed. “Hey, better of been your wife in that dream.”
“’Course it was.” He laughed also. “Both her sisters, too. Especially that big-tittied one, Elizabeth.”
Bian whispered to me, “Pigs.”
“Nonsense. Boy talk.”
Somebody punched me in the ribs.
Finder informed Captain Yuknis, “Got a job tonight. We’ll be coming out between four and five. Appreciate it if you’d pass word to your Marines.”
Instead of replying, Captain Yuknis yelled to his men by the humvees, “Sergeant Goins, if you’d be so kind, extinguish those damn headlights before Abdullah the sniper ventilates me.”
The lights went out, and Captain Yuknis stepped closer to the car and bent forward at the waist. I observed him observing us through the windows. To Finder, he said, “Who are the Iraqi ladies?”
“You don’t want to know.”
He was carrying a flashlight. He turned the beam on our faces and examined us more closely. To Finder, he commented, “The one on the left’s a looker. That other one . . . whoa, my boner just blew a flat.”
They both laughed.
I mentioned to Bian, “You’re right—pigs.”
Now she laughed.
Yuknis turned around and faced Finder. “About tonight . . . you might want to reconsider.”
“Can’t. This one’s not cancelable. Not even postponable.”
“Rethink that, Eric. Trust me on this.”
This sounded like an ominous yet unclear warning and Finder did spend a moment thinking about that. “Give me an idea of what you’re talking about.”
“I can’t talk about it, okay? I’ve already—”
“Just give me an idea of the time, Chris.”
“Early.”
“How early? Help me out here.”
Choosing his words carefully, Yuknis replied, “You didn’t get this from me. Okay? By four, I wouldn’t be inside Falluja.” After a moment he amended that. “By three-thirty I wouldn’t even want to try coming out of Falluja. Get my drift?” He then said, “It’s big.”
Finder glanced in our direction, then said, “Allow us a moment alone. Please.”
Captain Yuknis stepped back a few paces. Bian rolled down her window, Finder stuck his head inside, and in a low voice he asked us, “You understand what he’s saying?”