Authors: Claude Schmid
What was inside this woman’s mind? As a potential mother, a home provider, she should be a giver of life, not a taker. Yet she was one with the fighters, sharing as a dispenser of violence in a man’s world. Not only that. She was a foreigner. This was not her place, nor her people. If she spoke any Arabic, it was probably minimal.
Yet she came to Iraq, a place a thousand miles from her home. That surely was no easy task, probably following a tenuous ratline strung from her place to this one, guided by fanatics operating on the edge of the world, most likely knowing little of the places she passed through or where she was going. But she had come.
Wynn knew the elementary facts about Chechnya, about the wars fought there, about the Islamic terrorists. There was one thing—an idea of Radical Islam—which these places had in common. Because of that, jihad had found a home. Like all the foreign jihadists, this female would have had to have come to Iraq more
for
something than
to
something. This purpose must be her life.
Thinking about it now as objectively as he could, she probably had at least two things working in her favor. One, she would initially be above suspicion, because she was a woman. Two, she had to be an exceptional shooter. These two facts about her, probably combined with an extraordinary mental focus, had caught the eye of someone. Or perhaps she had been picked out as a child, designated early as a future weapon of Islam, and enrolled in a special school and trained as a terrorist. Either way, she had to have had partners, collaborators in this journey, others who accepted and furthered the cause of a very special female.
Still, it didn’t seem possible. Everything he had seen here or read about this place confirmed the secondary role of women in a Muslim country. Not that women weren’t considered important, but they were, by their laws of God, far more subservient than western women were. Rarely did women in Muslim countries play leading roles.
Perhaps she could have been a suicide bomber instead. Women had done that. A talent for delivering death would always find admirers. Wynn didn’t think the American Army allowed female snipers. In fact, other than a few special exceptions like helicopter pilots, the American Army still tried to keep women out of a direct combat role. But as a sniper? No. Finding out your enemy was a woman cheated your pride somehow. If you thought the world was supposed to be a rational, if cruel, place—that things happened for a reason and that reason was discernible to man—this kind of discovery would make you question all internal logic.
Wynn closed his eyes. His mind thirsted for different thoughts and to push away what he didn’t understand. Maybe he should quit trying.
Soon sleep ensnared him, and he drifted into an ephemeral world of wanted and unwanted recollections. Speculations danced within his restless mind. Eventually, after struggling for some time, he descended into the refuge of deep sleep, like a fish down deep between rocks in swift water.
DAY SIX
21
At 0730, Wynn began his morning brief to the platoon.
“Our first mission today is another trip to the school. We’ll talk to the schoolmaster and see if he’ll give us more information. Then we plan to visit the dead boy’s family. Sheikh Jassim will meet us there. Later, we’ll tackle more census work. Probably this afternoon. We also plan to patrol the Houdoud Al’dena market.” He and Cooke had decided to postpone the northwest patrol again. “I don’t have anything new to tell you about what we talked about last night. I’m sure everybody’s been thinking about it.”
Wynn covered other points, then said: “Sergeant Cooke will go over the plan details.”
Cooke put out the truck assignments, dismount teams, and convoy routes.
By 0750, the Wolfhounds were headed back to Bawa Sah. Wynn felt sure Albadi was back at work. They didn’t have an appointment. Wynn didn’t want to forewarn the schoolmaster, as he might decide he didn’t want to see them and skip out. The school didn’t have a phone, and the schoolmaster didn’t have a personal cell phone. This wasn’t unusual. Cell phones became available to the average Iraqi only over the last year or so, after the fall of Saddam. They’d visit unannounced.
He doubted that Albadi was involved in the shooting. He didn’t seem the type and probably wouldn’t risk it. Perhaps after a couple of days to reflect on things and talk, the schoolmaster might tell them something important.
Fifteen minutes after the convoy got underway, CPT Baumann came up on the radio calling all platoon leaders. Wynn and the others answered. All three platoons were out on patrol.
“I got some new information from headquarters a short while ago that I thought was important enough to put out right away,” Baumann began. “First, additional documents seized at the warehouse raid were translated overnight. Those docs confirm that the PFA group and their female sniper are targeting family members of anyone cooperating with the Coalition. The Intel analysts are concluding that a number of the recent sniper killings are the responsibility of this group. Make sure you emphasize these concerns with any prominent Iraqis you engage. However, a separate report came in saying credit for the checkpoint bombing that Wolfhounds responded to yesterday belongs to a different group. Supposedly that group focuses on attacking Iraqi security forces. Given the serious sniper threat, and the obvious IED threat, make extra sure all your countermeasures are in place, especially when engaging with Iraqis.”
The platoon leaders acknowledged the information, and Baumann signed off. Wynn put both hands behind his neck and massaged himself. He again reviewed what he knew. The PFA group was operating in the warehouse. That group and their sniper were killing Iraqis, but nothing they had so far proved one way or the other that that sniper had shot the boy. Maybe more documents would reveal that or maybe new information will come out. He had second thoughts on how the warehouse operation had been handled. Perhaps if they had handled it differently more insurgents could have been killed or captured, perhaps even the female. But he couldn’t turn the clock back. He had to find a new opportunity.
Wynn got on the platoon net and put out a short report of what he had just heard.
It wasn’t yet 0830 and the angry sun already breathed down with open fangs, turning the surroundings a hazy, pale mustard, and intimidating all living things. Moose felt hot metal all around as the heat and stench of cooked air washed over the moving Humvee. But he cared little about physical sensations, and as the platoon neared the school and moved past the usual activities and places, he noticed the typical struggling businesses, the ramshackle homes, the wary people. He stayed largely oblivious to it all—his mind was insulated by an idea: the idea of revenge. Wynn’s latest radio traffic powered that idea.
Prospects for revenge exited Moose. Why? A primeval urge to make something broken whole? Or was it about tearing down, about destroying? To him the idea of revenge was sweet. Would they get it from this bumbling Schoolmaster? Or would he claim, as Moose believed all Iraqis did, to know nothing? Even if they knew something, they admitted nothing. No knowledge. No culpability. No help. Fuck them.
Ahead, two Iraqi men used shovels to clear a sewer. A small curly-headed boy sat on a concrete block watching them. The boy turned and watched the Wolfhound convoy suspiciously. An older man said something to the boy and the boy looked away. Fuck them. Passing, Moose stuck out his tongue.
When the convoy pulled up to the school this time, no children were outside. Maybe it was still closed. Some of the brick stacks were now gone. It was unclear whether anyone was inside.
“Take all four corners,” Wynn directed over the radio as the platoon pulled in, “maintain three-sixty security. Security team meet me at D21.”
The platoon positioned. Three personnel, Moose one of them, would dismount to go inside the school, providing security for Wynn and Cengo. Moose was glad to get out of the truck. The revenge idea was sweetening. The Wolfhounds remaining outside had orders to stay in their trucks, even if school kids came back outside.
D22 stayed at the entrance of the school compound. Turnbeck’s crew was tasked to keep a close watch on the houses where they’d searched for the sniper.
The security team assembled at Wynn’s truck.
At 0910, Wynn and team walked inside the school. Once inside, Moose glanced around like a hungry dog looking for food. The children were back, but this time they remained in their classrooms. Albadi met the group at the door. He was alone, looking like he hadn’t slept and was clearly nervous, his long gray
dishdasha
blending with his placid pastel skin. Sunlight from a window shone on the man’s bald head, illuminating shiny tiny drops of perspiration. His clasped hands rested submissively on his abdomen. He acted as if he waited on a court verdict.
Albadi and Wynn exchanged perfunctory greetings.
“Ask him about the other children.” Wynn instructed Cengo
“Sir?”
“Ask if the rest of the kids are OK.”
Cengo translated, repeating a couple of Arabic words, presumably for greater emphasis. They were OK, Albadi answered. The school had closed for two days. Everyone was worried. As in other Iraqi schools, due to the shortage of them, some children came in the morning and others in the afternoon. This old school had continued to operate with no electricity, no water, and war damages unrepaired.
Albadi asked if the group should sit down in his office.
Wynn’s replied yes, and they walked around the corner to Albadi’s office.
As they walked through the lobby, Moose noticed that bed sheets covered a 12-foot section of damaged wall at the back of the school. The sheets didn’t fully cover the opening, exposing the room to the outside. A large dirty stain covered the floor where water had leaked inside.
Out of the corner of his eye, Moose caught movement, and saw a small bird hopping around inside. The bird appeared as lost as the rest of them.
Albadi’s office was small, about the size of a department store changing room. The desk and chair only left room for two other people. Wynn and Cengo followed the schoolmaster inside. Moose stood at the door and looked inside. The office was dark, lit only by sunlight coming through a cracked windowpane. A tea kettle simmered on a small gas burner. Albadi did not offer them tea.
The rest of the security team stayed in the lobby. Sims walked back and stood guard by the school entrance. Moose remained by the Schoolmaster’s office door, oriented out. He could hear the conversation going on inside.
Moose didn’t trust Albadi and didn’t like him. Albadi was one of those men born with a guilty look. His face was long, lean, and serious, like a Doberman’s. And he was too quiet, too worried, too careful. All these attributes meant a guilty conscience. Where he came from, if a man wouldn’t look at you while talking, you couldn’t trust him. Besides, he trusted only the people wearing the same uniform he wore. But Wynn was determined to hear the man out. So Moose would do his job: stand guard and remain ready to—in the sanitized words of military tactics—engage the enemy.
Wynn asked whether Albadi knew the contractor before the school construction job had started.
No.
Wynn asked whether, on the day of the attack, Manah had told Albadi that the Wolfhounds planned to visit the school.
Yes, Manah had told him.
“After hearing we were coming, did you discuss that with anyone?” Wynn asked.
A long pause lay in the room like a corpse.
Moose could not see the facial expressions inside the room. Nobody said anything. A foot shuffled on the floor.
Wynn spoke. “Tell Mr. Albadi that I must know who he talked to. Anybody that he thinks may have heard in advance that we were coming, I must know.” Wynn added firmly, “As I think Mr. Albadi must know, that kind of attack was planned. Ninety percent of the time a sniper attack is planned, rehearsed. That takes time.”
Another pause. Cengo had not yet translated, sensing, Moose assumed, that Wynn had more to say.
Then Wynn continued. “Tell him that. Tell him that Iraqis and Americans both want to find out who did this shooting. Tell me when you are finished.”
“I understand everything. No need for translate,” Albadi said abruptly, in a distinctly British accent. “I believe, Sir, that I only…”
Albadi’s change to English surprised everyone. His English was as good as Cengo’s.
“…that I only talked to workers,” Albadi finished.
Another pause. Moose took a step across the doorway and cast a lingering glance inside the room. Albadi’s eyes misted, as if he was in severe pain. His hands were hidden under the desk.
“Go on,” Wynn urged. “It’s very important that if you know anything, you help us.”
Albadi stopped talking. Cengo translated. Then Wynn continued again.
“A murder occurred in your schoolyard, Sadi. If you know anything, you must help us avenge that child.”
Cengo did not translate that. The room was quiet again for several seconds.
I can get that man to talk
, Moose said to himself. He knows something, the bastard.
Wynn, unexpectedly, spoke loud and fast. “Sadi, if I think you are not being truthful, I will take you into custody. One way or the other, you will tell us the truth.”
Then Albadi spoke in Arabic again, rapidly, as if a spell had been broken. He spoke for about a minute. When Albadi had finished, Cengo translated.
“He say he only discuss visit coming with his own family, and with school children. He tell children because some families no want their kids near soldiers. If soldiers come, and parents find out they come, and that he not tell them, they be upset with him.”
Shit
, Moose thought. Everybody knows. If the kids told their parents then the whole damn town knew they were coming.
Then Albadi spoke. “Yes. I must tell them. Some families hate you Americans. They believe Americans should leave Iraq. Should not be in Iraq. Some families have been threatened by Al Qaeda. And because you coming—some parents not let their children come to school.”