Rogue Forces (15 page)

A
LLIED
A
IR
B
ASE
N
AHLA
, I
RAQ

T
WO DAYS LATER

Voices in the Tank were much more muted than before; no one spoke except to make a report or observation. If they were not otherwise occupied, the department heads, operators, and specialists sat straight up in their seats and stared straight ahead—no chatting with comrades, no stretching, no sign of idleness.

Colonel Wilhelm entered the battle staff room, took his seat at the front console, and donned his headset. Without turning to face his staff, he spoke over the intercom: “We’ve been ordered to suspend all operations except logistics, reconnaissance, and intel. No IA combat support until further notice.”

“But all that stuff is done by the contractors, sir,” someone remarked on intercom. “What are
we
going to do?”

“We are going to train in case the shit hits the fan with Turkey,” Wilhelm replied.

“Are we at war with Turkey, sir?” the regimental executive officer, Mark Weatherby, asked.

“Negative,” Wilhelm replied tonelessly.

“Then why are
we
standing down, sir?” the regimental ops officer, Kenneth Bruno, asked. “We didn’t fuck up. We should be blasting hell out of the Turks for—”

“I asked the same questions and made the same comments,” Wilhelm interrupted, “and I was told by the Pentagon to pipe down, too, so now I’m telling you: pipe down. Listen up and pass the word to your troops:

“We are permanently on Force Protection Condition Delta. If I see you in the sunshine without your full battle rattle, and you’re not already dead, I will kill you myself. This base will be sealed up tighter than a flea’s poop chute. Woe befalls anyone who is seen without ID visible and displayed in the proper location, and that includes the senior staff and especially the civilians.

“As of this moment, this base is on a wartime footing—if we’re not allowed to defend the Iraqi army that is living and working with us, we’ll sure as hell defend ourselves,” Wilhelm went on. “We will not be sitting idly around with our thumbs up our asses—we’ll continue training as much as we’re allowed until we rotate out. Next, the Triple-C will be turned over to the IA as soon as—”

“
What
?” someone exclaimed.

“I said, pipe down,” Wilhelm snapped. “Official word from the Pentagon: we’re not going to be relieved. We’re closing up shop and turning the Triple-C over to the IA. All combat forces are moving out of Iraq, ahead of schedule. The IA is taking over.” It was the day many in that room had been praying for, the day they were going to leave Iraq for good, but strangely no one was celebrating. “Well?” Wilhelm asked, looking around the Tank. “Aren’t you mokes happy?”

There was a long silence; then Mark Weatherly said, “It makes us look like we’re running, sir.”

“It makes us look like we can’t take a hit,” someone else chimed in.

“I know it does,” Wilhelm said. “But we know differently.” That didn’t seem to convince anyone—the silence was palpable. “We’ll uninstall all the classified stuff—which in the absence of detailed instructions will be most of our gear as far as I’m concerned—but the rest will be turned over to the Iraqi Army. We’ll still be here to train and assist the IA, but not with combat operations. It hasn’t been worked out whether their idea of ‘security operations’ is the same as ours, so we may still see some action, but I wouldn’t bet on it. Where’s McLanahan?”

“I’m up, Colonel,” Patrick replied over the command network. “I’m in the hangar.”

“The regiment’s main task now is to support the contractors,” Wilhelm said, his voice dead-cold and emotionless, “because all surveillance and security will be done by them. The Army is now just a trip-wire force, like we were in Korea before unification, and we’ll probably be reduced to an even lower size than we were before we left there completely. General McLanahan, get together with Captain Cotter and figure out airspace coordination with logistics flights, the UAVs, and your spook planes.”

“Yes, Colonel.”

“McLanahan, I’ll meet you at the hangar in five. Everyone else, the exec will be meeting with you to discuss removing the classified gear and starting a training program. Oh, one more thing: the memorial service for Second Platoon will be tonight; they’ll be flown out to Germany tomorrow morning. That is all.” He threw his headset onto the desk and strode out without as much as a glance to anyone else.

The XC-57 had been moved to a large tent outdoors so the air-conditioned hangar could be used to prepare the fallen members of Second Platoon for their flight out of Iraq. A C-130 Hercules transport had flown aluminum transfer cases in from Kuwait, and they were being unstacked in preparation for loading. Tables with the remains of the troops in body bags were lined up, and medical personnel, mortuary and registration volunteers, and fellow soldiers
moved up and down the rows to assist, pray for them, or to say good-bye. A refrigerated truck was set up nearby to hold the remains of the more seriously decimated soldiers.

Wilhelm found Patrick standing beside one of the body bags, with a volunteer waiting to zip the bag up. When Patrick noticed the regimental commander standing across from him, he said, “Specialist Gamaliel came in last night before the mission. He said he wanted to know what it was like to fly heavy bombers and space-planes. He told me he always wanted to fly and was thinking about crossing over to the Air Force so he could go into space. We talked for about fifteen minutes, and then he left to join his platoon.”

Wilhelm looked at the badly scarred and bloodied body, said a silent
thank you, Trooper,
then said aloud, “We need to talk, General.” He nodded at the waiting soldiers, who reverently finished zipping the body bag closed. He followed Patrick down the line of body bags, then to an isolated portion of the hangar. “We’ve got VIPs flying in later today on a CV-22 Osprey,” he said.

“Vice President Phoenix. I know.”

“How the hell do you know all these things so quickly, McLanahan?”

“He’s flying in on our second XC-57 aircraft, not on the Osprey,” Patrick said. “They’re afraid the Osprey is too much of a target.”

“You guys must be plugged into the White House pretty tightly to pull that off.” Patrick said nothing. “Did you have anything to do with the decision to cease combat operations?”

“You knew you were winding down combat ops, Colonel,” Patrick said. “The Zakhu incident just accelerated things. As for how I know certain things…it’s my
job
to know or learn things. I use all the tools at my disposal to gather as much information as I can.”

Wilhelm took a step toward Patrick…but this time it was not menacing or threatening. It was as if he had a serious, direct, and urgent question, one that he didn’t want others to hear in case it might reveal his own fears or confusion. “Who
are
you guys?” he asked in a low voice, almost a whisper. “What in hell is going on around here?”

For the first time, Patrick softened his opinion of the regimental commander. He certainly knew what it was like to lose men in combat and lose control of a situation, and he understood what Wilhelm was feeling. But he didn’t yet deserve an answer or explanation.

“I’m sorry about your loss, Colonel,” Patrick said. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’ve got a plane coming in.”

The second XC-57 Loser aircraft touched down at Nahla Allied Air Base at eight
P.M.
local time. It had been preceded by a CV-22 Osprey tilt-rotor transport plane that the press and local dignitaries had been told would be carrying the vice president. The CV-22 executed the standard “high-performance” arrival—a high-speed dash into the base from high altitude, followed by a steep circle over the base to lose speed and altitude—and encountered no difficulties. By the time security forces had escorted the Osprey into a hangar, the XC-57 had already landed and taxied safely to another part of the base.

Jack Wilhelm, Patrick McLanahan, Jon Masters, Kris Thompson, and Mark Weatherly, all wearing identical civilian clothes—blue jeans, boots, plain shirt, sunglasses, and a tan vest, very similar to what Kris Thompson’s security forces typically wore—stood beside the XC-57 as the vice president climbed down the boarding ladder.

The only one in uniform was Colonel Yusuf Jaffar, the Iraqi commander of Allied Air Base Nahla. He was in his usual desert gray battle dress uniform, but this time was wearing a green beret with an array of medals pinned to the blouse, black ascot, spit-shined boots and pistol holster, and a .45 caliber automatic pistol. He did not say anything to anyone except his aide, but he seemed to be watching Patrick, as if he wanted to speak with him.

No one except Jaffar saluted as Vice President Kenneth Phoenix stepped to the ground. Phoenix was dressed almost exactly as the other Americans—it looked like a gaggle of civilian security guards. Several other men and women alighted, dressed similarly.

Phoenix looked around, grinning at the sight, until his eyes finally locked onto a familiar face. “Thank God I recognize someone. I was starting to feel like I was having a weird dream.” He stepped over to Patrick and extended a hand. “Good to see you, General.”

“Good to see you, too, Mr. Vice President. Welcome to Iraq.”

“I wish it was under happier circumstances. So, you’re working for the ‘dark side’ now: the evil defense contractors.” Patrick made no response. “Introduce me around.”

“Yes, sir. Colonel Yusuf Jaffar, commander of Allied Air Base Nahla.”

Jaffar did not lower his salute until he was introduced, and then he stood at rigid attention until Phoenix extended his hand. “A pleasure to meet you, Colonel.”

Jaffar shook his hand as stiffly as he stood. “I am honored you have you visit my base and my country, sir,” he said in a booming voice, his words obviously well rehearsed. “
Es salaam alekum
. Welcome to the Republic of Iraq and to Allied Air Base Nahla.”

“
Es salaam alekum
,” Phoenix said with a surprisingly good Arabic accent. “I am sorry for your losses, sir.”

“My men served with honor and died as martyrs in the service of their country,” Jaffar said. “They sit at the right hand of God. As for the ones who did this, they shall pay dearly.” He snapped to attention and looked away from Phoenix, terminating their conversation.

“Mr. Vice President, Colonel Jack Wilhelm, regimental commander.”

Phoenix extended a hand, and Wilhelm took it. “I’m very sorry for your losses, Colonel,” he said. “If there’s anything you need, anything at all, you come directly to me.”

“For now my only request is your presence at the departure ceremony for Second Platoon, sir. It’ll be in a couple hours.”

“Of course, Colonel. I’ll be there.” Wilhelm introduced the others from his command, and the vice president introduced the others who arrived with him. Kris Thompson then led them to waiting armored vehicles.

Before Patrick climbed into an armored Suburban, Jaffar’s aide
came up to him and saluted. “My apologies for the interruption, sir,” the aide said in very good English. “The colonel wishes to speak with you.”

Patrick looked over at Jaffar, who was partially turned away from him. “Can it wait until our briefing with the vice president is over?”

“The colonel will not be attending the briefing, sir. Please?” Patrick nodded and motioned for the driver to go.

The Iraqi snapped to attention and saluted when Patrick stepped over to him. Patrick returned his salute. “General McLanahan. I apologize for the interruption.”

“You won’t be attending the briefing with the vice president, Colonel?”

“It would be an insult to my commander and the chief of staff of the Iraqi army for me to attend such a meeting before them,” Jaffar explained. “These protocols must be observed.” He glared at McLanahan, then added, “I should think that your commanding officers and diplomats in Baghdad would be similarly offended.”

“It’s the vice president’s decision, not ours.”

“The vice president cares little for such protocols?”

“He’s here to find out what happened and how our government can help get things straightened out, not observe protocols.”

Jaffar nodded. “I see.”

“He might think that you not attending the briefing is a breach of protocol, Colonel. He is here to help Iraq and the Iraqi army, after all.”

“Is that so, General?” Jaffar asked, a razor-sharp edge to his voice. “He comes unbidden to our country and expects me to attend a briefing that our
president
has not yet heard?” He made a show of thinking about his point, then nodded. “Please make my apologies to the vice president.”

“Of course. I can brief you later if you’d prefer.”

“That would be acceptable, General,” Jaffar said. “Sir, may I have permission to inspect your reconnaissance aircraft at your earliest convenience?”

Patrick was a little surprised: Jaffar hadn’t shown any interest in their activities whatsoever in the short time he’d been there. “There are some systems and devices that are classified and I can’t—”

“I understand, sir. I believe you call it NOFORN—no foreign nationals. I understand completely.”

“Then I’d be happy to show it to you,” Patrick said. “I can brief you on tonight’s reconnaissance run, show you the aircraft before the preflight inspections, and go over the unclassified data as we receive it to show you our capabilities. I’ll have to get Colonel Wilhelm’s and my company’s permission, but I don’t think that’ll be a problem. Nineteen hundred hours, in your office?”

“That is acceptable, General McLanahan,” Jaffar said. Patrick nodded and extended a hand, but Jaffar snapped to attention, saluted, spun on a heel, and walked quickly away to his waiting car, followed by his aide. Patrick shook his head, confused, then jumped into a waiting Humvee, which took him to the Command and Control Center.

Wilhelm was waiting for him in the conference room overlooking the Tank. Mark Weatherly was introducing the vice president to some of the staff members and explaining the layout of the Triple-C and the Tank. “Where’s Jaffar?” Wilhelm asked in a low voice.