Authors: Claude Schmid
Cooke beamed at the man, exposing his white teeth as if he were auditioning for toothpaste commercials. He offered a handshake and the man took it.
Kale felt like he got out of race car and into a sauna.
“Perfume?” Cooke asked.
“The best,” said the man in scratchy English.
“Do you sell for men and women?”
“Yes, of course.”
Cooke made a show of sniffing several bottles. He grinned widely, when encountering one he favored.
“Where from?” Cooke asked him.
“Best places.”
“I need to send some of this back to Nada,” Cooke commented to Kale, but put the small bottle back on the table. “Very nice,” he told the vendor. “Best of luck in your business, Sadi.”
“Thank you, Sir,” said the Iraqi.
The team turned around and went back out to the main street. The Wolfhounds passed spice dealers with their wares displayed in sacks inside wicker baskets. Next, a heavyset guy worked a couple of wicker baskets full of used cell phones, and a smaller basket of SIM cards. A little further down, on the other side of the street, a man with white-poddle hair displayed 15 or 20 blankets packed in transparent plastic suitcases.
After a few more minutes of walking, the team arrived at the Egg Ladies’ stand. The two sisters acknowledged the Americans with modest familiarity. Cooke picked up an egg and playfully tossed it from hand to hand like a ball. The more elderly and assertive of the two ladies reached half-heartedly to snatch it back from him. She missed. Kale suspected she’d missed intentionally.
Kale took this woman’s measure. She looked distinguished. Deep eyes, delicate nose, a certain sad grace earned by survival, perhaps. What a mature Janet Jackson might look like. All he could see was her face. She wore a brown burka with a dark green headscarf and was unmistakably a woman whom life had ridden hard, but she had survived and even staged a recovery of sorts. Survival was now probably her proudest claim. Although the Wolfhounds had known her for months, they knew little about her.
She said something to Cooke in Arabic.
“This is your
baq-shish,
” Cooke explained, shrugging her off, using the Arabic word for “payment.” He still held the egg in his hand and a sly grin on his face. His expression made it clear that he was teasing her, and that he wasn’t stealing an egg. Her eyes sparkled with complicity.
She didn’t know what Cooke said. She spoke no English, but understood what he meant.
He had taken an egg from her before—the empty egg shell he kept on his desk.
She warmed as she interacted with Cooke, her mouth relaxing to expose a set of teeth colored like crackerjack candy. Her eyes softened into an appreciative gaze. Kale sensed, too, the never far distant self-protective tendencies that must reside in her, the constant worry about the present, and she must be hoping that her conversation in the market with the Americans would go largely unnoticed.
Cooke wouldn’t tease her long. He knew Iraqis didn’t want attention, especially not in a public place. The egg lady now spoke directly to Cengo, more quietly. Her face suddenly became serious and drawn, with what Kale read as sadness. Cooke and Kale looked on as the two Iraqis spoke confidentially for a few seconds. Then, as if forced to convey bad news, her eyes clouded and she lowered her voice. Had she told Cengo about a personal matter, unrelated to the Americans? Her eyes blinked rapidly. She looked from side to side, worried about something. Then she nodded her head towards Cooke as a conspirator might finger a co-conspirator. A wave of urgency rushing over his face, Cengo turned towards Cooke.
“She tell me about talk about some foreigners hiding brick factory,” the terp spit out.
“What?” questioned Cooke, confused.
“Terrorists, maybe. She say she hear talk about hiding in dead part brick factory.”
“What?” snapped Cooke, still unsure he understood Cengo.
“She say some people talking they hiding there.”
“What people? Hiding where?”
Understanding Cengo was difficult. He had taken on the woman’s attitude, wanting to avoid drawing attention.
“Who say? How she hear that?”
The egg lady looked down, alarmed by Cooke’s agitated voice. They had been there too long. She clinched her bony hands like an old woman at an accident scene. The egg ladies were now anxious for the Wolfhounds to leave.
“Egg Lady say this,” Cengo continued
“What factory?” Cooke asked.
Cengo asked the egg lady another question. Though he was speaking Arabic, Kale could tell Cengo was entreating her.
She answered quietly, looking as if she’d entered a place she wanted no part of.
Shoppers continued walking through the area. A few eyed the soldiers the way patients look at cancer doctors. At the far end of the stand, a young woman carrying a baby strapped to her chest stopped to look at the eggs, then moved on.
Kale felt his hands starting to twitch. He had to breathe harder to get the same oxygen.
Cengo translated the egg lady’s reply. “She say she hear this from someone she talk to here. Somebody talking. That person angry. Other people angry from the killing of boy. That person say they hear terrorist that kill schoolboy hiding in old brick factory area. She trust person gave her this information.”
Cooke spoke, authority in this voice. “Tell her thank you very much for the information. Tell her to contact us if she hears anything else—and, of course, she shouldn’t tell anyone she told us.”
The team walked away from the egg stand. Kale could see that Cooke had become highly focused, restless to move on, like a basketball player waiting for the jump. Nevertheless, on Cooke’s direction, the team lingered three or four more minutes at other stands. Kale interpreted this to mean the platoon sergeant didn’t want to draw too much attention to the egg stand by an abrupt departure.
Kale scanned constantly, trying to notice anyone watching them. Dozens of people were nearby. He sensed strange eyes inspecting him, but he tried not to worry too much. Hopefully none had been within earshot of their conversations with the sisters. He looked back at Cooke. Cooke’s eyes were lit.
Could these be the people behind the sniper?
Surely that’s what he was hoping. The excitement of discovery burned inside them and they were silent walking out of the market. The brick factory was several kilometers to the west.
Wynn sat in his Humvee, door ajar, reviewing notes. Cooke walked up unnoticed and leaned in. The two men’s faces were within inches of each other. Cooke spoke low and slow, as if he worried that too much enthusiasm would spook the prey, relaying what he had heard from the egg lady. On hearing the news, Wynn churned in thought. Cooke looked like a man thinking he was nearing retribution.
“It’s not far from here, Sir,” Cooked added, “at most maybe five clicks due west. We can get there in less than thirty minutes.”
Both men realized that in this environment five kilometers
was
far, and it would take longer than that to get there.
“Maybe. But it’s a spread-out place we don’t know.” Wynn replied, uncertain. “We haven’t been there and know next to nothing about it. I think the whole place, the factory complex, is about a kilometer long. Big building and lots of little buildings with open spaces around those big smoke stacks. Could be IEDs all over.”
Initially, when Cooke had told him what the egg lady had reported, Wynn’s hopes had surged, like an athlete sensing triumph—finally a solid clue on another PFA location. But caution and deliberation crept back in, and he let Cooke talk without showing his own hand. They had to get this right.
“We can cordon the whole damn thing. Get the QRF out to reinforce us,” Cooke offered.
“That would take a lot of men. Don’t think we can get the QRF for this. No imminent danger. You know they rarely scramble the QRF simply because of a suspected insurgent position. No shots have even been fired.”
If they went for it now, they would have to go it alone, Wynn thought. He’d need permission from Baumann to leave his battlespace again. Probably could get that. Doubtful about the QRF. They would need more than just the egg lady’s second-hand information.
“Problem is, only one road most of the way out there,” Cooke continued. “If they have any spotters, and they surely do, they would see us coming.”
“Yeah. It’s a single two-lane hardball. You go out that road and the brick factory is your destination. Everybody knows it,” Wynn replied. “They would see us for miles.”
“What about from the north, from Route Orange? Must be access from up there,” Cooke said.
“It’s also way out of our area. It’s not in anybody’s active sector. We’ve never been there.”
Reports from the three other platoon trucks came in sequence over the radio. The buzz and beeping sound from all the electronics was comforting. The market patrol had all remounted their Humvees, except for Cooke, and maintained security. Wynn and Cooke said nothing for a moment, contemplating their options in heavy silence. Thoughts in the mind are like boats on water; they never stay completely still. Ideas tumble over assumptions. Uncertainty surrounds everything. Swells of emotions jostle analysis. And their boat was riding the edge of a storm.
He remembered the platoon’s hasty warehouse mission. They had busted a torture operation, but if they’d been more deliberate and developed the situation, they might have captured or killed more insurgents.
“The advantage to a quick strike is always surprise,” Cook argued. “If we wait or do nothing, the opportunity could be lost.”
Wynn hesitated, still deliberating, wanting to be selective in his words. Cooke waited on the decision. The rest of the Wolfhounds, nineteen men in four up-armored Humvees, engines running, waited too.
“Don’t think anybody suspected you of getting important information from her, do you?” Wynn asked, referring to the egg lady, and changing the subject slightly.
“Never sure, Sir. Doubt it. We chitchatted as long with several vendors. And we don’t always talk to the same ones.”
Wynn had an uneasy feeling every time an informant told them anything. The informant inevitably was playing with fire. Retaliation by insurgents could be brutal. Torture. Murdered families. Beheadings. However, getting information from cooperative locals was the only way. Without the Iraqis taking risks, it was impossible to make gains against the insurgency.
He could call CPT Baumann and discuss the whole thing with him. Then however it turned out, the decision would get made.
“Let me call the CO. See what he thinks.”
“OK,” Cooke agreed.
Cooke stepped away, separating himself from Wynn’s pending conversation with Baumann, but still close enough to hear. He’d given his professional opinion and now seemed resigned to any decision. Wynn picked up the radio to call the commander and looked at Cooke. SFC Cooke, wearing full battle rattle and protective glasses, looked like a gigantic insect ready to strike. He walked around to the driver’s side of D21, opened the door, and gave Gung a playful punch in the arm.
“No Purple Heart today, Sarge,” Gung protested. Gung’s gloved hands gripped the steering wheel firmly. He wasn’t in the debate and didn’t appear to care one way or the other. He was ready either way.
Within minutes, Wynn had Baumann on the radio. The commander had the same view that Wynn did. Don’t be hasty. They should develop the situation more. Do deliberate planning. Baumann felt they would be able to get eyes on the site with UAVs. So that was it.
Wynn signaled to Cooke to come back over, and told him.
“We need better Intel to confirm. Do deliberate planning, the CO said. We can’t rush out of sector without better Intel. To make this work we have to be sure. Then plan an operation. We rush and we could ruin it. If something’s there, we should find out exactly where and what. Then strike. Strike smart and hard.”
Cooke stayed quiet and chewed his disappointment.
Wynn took another look at the computer map, then continued. “I’ll put it all into HQ on the way back. The CO thinks he can make a UAV flyover happen. See if we can get a read on whether someone is really camping out in the brick factory. Maybe specify the location for us. See what we’re up against. Then he’ll decide what kind of force package to put together.”
Wynn saw Cooke wasn’t happy with the decision. He was a man of action. Win with boldness. No taking a knee when the fight was on. But they had to be smart before they could fight well. Baumann thought the same. Aerial surveillance could see the whole complex, see evidence of people, and maybe confirm any vehicular traffic.
Cooke was still unconvinced.
“Sergeant Cooke, you said yourself it would be hard to get out there undetected. Since we have suspicions, but know next to nothing about the factory, we have to be careful. Tip them off or don’t find them and we might fuck up our chances.”
Cooke puckered his lips. He looked down, as if studying his boots, considering what Wynn had said. Deep creases lined his forehead like lost opportunity marks. Sweat glistened on his temples and jaw, soaking his helmet chin strap.
“Roger,” Cooke blurted out finally, the 14 years of military subordination and loyalty evident.
“Let’s get back, Sergeant Cooke, and get this thing rolling.”
“Ever gotten your ass kicked, Sir?” Cooke asked Wynn, in the messhall about two hours later.
It was 1935, and the two men were having dinner together.
“No,” Wynn answered, quashing a grin.
Cooke said, “Had mine kicked four or five times. The first time, I remember it well, was in the second grade. A fifth-grade kid yanked me up on the playground and knee-butted me to the head. Almost knocked me out. Growing up in Milwaukee, the rivalry between the Packers and the Bears was fierce. The biggest kid in the fifth grade was a dumb Bears fan. And you know me, I wore a Packers jersey two or three times a week already in the second grade. That was my first experience with bullies. Haven’t had any tolerance for bullies since.”
Wynn watched Cooke take a deep breath. His massive chest looked like a sea turtle shell. Few bullies would mess with Cooke today.