by Mark Mannock
Two days later, after a raft of last-minute preparations, Jack Greatrex and I sat in the back of a cab leaving Venice and heading to LAX for our flight to Washington. We didn’t say much; we knew we were heading into the frantic and talkative environment of a busy tour. Sitting silently in the back of the cab, gazing at the chaotic LA traffic, gave us a chance to attempt to come to terms with the events ahead of us. We had already over-discussed every possible combination of events and every possible scenario we could think of. Now it was time to let it all play out and hope we could influence the outcome.
We met the rest of the band and some of the touring party at LAX. Many of the crew had gone on ahead to look after the equipment that had gone by road. As I walked into the VIP lounge at the terminal I was greeted by Brian Pitt, our drummer. Brian is one of those people who always seem to make the most of every situation and see the best in everyone. We were good friends and I was glad to see him.
“Hey man, how cool is this, Nick?” he chortled happily. “Traveling around the world, guarded by the military, going into a war zone—if only my ex-wife could see me now!” Sometimes it seemed every musician had an ex-wife. Brian had three.
“It sure will be an experience,” I responded. I never lied to my friends.
“Hello, Nick.” It was Robbie West, looking every bit the rock star on tour. He was surrounded by some attentive young ladies, signing a couple of autographs and looking extremely happy that his era and style of music had come back into fashion.
“Hey, Robbie.” I couldn’t help but like him; he was one of the few “stars” who seemed to really appreciate those who worked with him.
“Nicholas Sharp.”
I turned around to see a tall blonde woman dressed in tight jeans and a loose cheesecloth top. She had piercing blue eyes, extremely long legs and a stunningly beautiful face.
“Kaitlin,” I responded. “I heard that you’d joined the tour.”
A moment of hesitation crossed her face, but then it was gone. She leaned forward for a kiss on the cheek.
I obliged.
“Great to see you, Nicholas.”
“You too,” I responded, and meant it.
From across the room Jack Greatrex gave me an all-knowing look and half a smile.
Before we could reminisce, a muffled voice through the lounge speakers called our flight for boarding. We all picked up our things and headed toward the departure lounge. One of the great things about working in a celebrity world is first-class travel; it’s all about minimal waiting and being well looked after.
Forty minutes later, as the huge jet engines of Virgin America flight 1108 blasted us into the air, our plane turned east and headed toward Washington DC. We had five hours of flying time ahead of us just to get to the place where we were going to depart from. I knew there would be some drinks, some seat swapping and a lot of catching up. I was happy with that; I was done with my own thoughts.
I couldn’t help but notice Kaitlin Reed two seats behind me, looking in my direction. Was this good, or was it an issue? I had no reason to suspect it was anything but good. On the other hand, my trust in humanity and all things positive had been severely scarred in the last couple of weeks. I was suspect of everything and trusted nothing. I then heard Greatrex laughing in the row ahead of me. He was sitting next to our bass player, Barry Flannigan, enjoying one of the veteran musician’s many tales of life on the road.
Nicholas Sharp, conflicted man … again. I made the decision to put all my cheerless thoughts to one side and ordered a scotch.
Fly me to the moon.
12
It seemed like no time at all, and our wheels were touching down at Washington Dulles International. We had done all the catching up we needed on the plane, so there was little conversation as we left the space-age architecture of the airport terminal for the next brief leg of our journey. Several black Humvees were waiting for us on the terminal access road outside. There were no armed forces markings on them, but to someone in the know they reeked military. Greatrex and I were in the know. In the midafternoon sun our convoy wound its way through McLean and Annandale toward Prince George’s County in Maryland. Our destination was the Joint Base Andrews.
Although I’d left the Marines several years before, I felt a little uneasy as we pulled up to the Andrews main gate. It was though I was crossing a line. Sitting next to me, Greatrex looked as if he was feeling the same.
A shared look and a shrug, and we were through security and onto one of the most famous military installations in the US. Joint Base Andrews was a relatively recent merger of the Andrews Air Force Base and the Naval Air Facility Washington. The name was new, but the facility’s military history was significant.
Brian and the other band members in our Humvee seemed quiet and, if anything, a little in awe. It was not every day a musician’s life led them to a place like this. Kaitlin Reed was in the Humvee ahead of us, so I couldn’t see her reaction.
Our Air Force driver turned to us and said, “Our instructions are to take you directly to your transport.”
No mucking about; we were back in the military now.
On a base that is nearly seven square miles in size and home to many different military units, “direct” is a relative word. As we ventured through the maze of buildings and checkpoints, everyone’s eyes seemed to be searching for the most famous aircraft in the world that calls Andrews home. There was, however, no sign of either of the two Boeing 747-200Bs that use the call sign Air Force One while the President of the United States is aboard. Either he was somewhere else or not traveling today. A bit frustrating for the tourists in our party.
We endured a last checkpoint before we were driven out onto the airfield.
On the tarmac ahead of us was the enormous gray shadow of a US Air Force Boeing C-17 Globemaster III military transport aircraft. This is how US armed forces traverse the globe. The C-17 before us was an indication that the civilian part of our journey was behind us.
At the rear of the aircraft the massive ramp was down, and our equipment was being loaded on board. Road cases sitting on pallets covered by heavy-duty webbing were the order of the day. While military personnel were doing the loading with an array of different vehicles, some of our civilian crew who had flown in ahead of us were overseeing the process. As we climbed out of our air-conditioned vehicles into the hot afternoon sun, we could hear some interaction between the two groups.
“Careful of that, dude. That mixing desk is worth more than you earn in a year.” It was the voice of our sound operator, Glenn Martinez. The look he received from the two military guys loading the pallet was thinly disguised frustration at best. Two different cultures meeting, working together, but certainly not understanding each other. I began to think that our greatest danger on this tour may not be the insurgents, or even Giles Winter, but the cultural ravine I saw before me.
“Take no notice of him; he’s a temperamental buffoon.” Our chief lighting engineer, Dennis Scutt, was soothing the waters. Maybe this would work out after all.
Off to one side I noticed a sulky shape I recognized as Tommy Dabbs. He seemed to be securing some gear while watching the others load. My immediate instinct was distrust. Did it look like he was up to something or was distrust just my default setting? I still felt uneasy.
“Right, everyone on board.” It was the authoritative voice of Kaitlin Reed, taking charge in an environment full of people in charge. I couldn’t help but admire her.
Just as she spoke, a jeep painted in military camouflage coloring pulled up. A man got out: early thirties, sleazy grin, civilian clothes, Ray-Ban sunglasses, good-looking in the conventional sense, and a look of supreme confidence. My feeling was instant dislike. Nicholas Sharp, judgmental bastard.
I whispered to Greatrex, who was next to me, “Who’s the used-car salesman?”
Before Greatrex could respond, our new acquaintance walked straight up to Kaitlin and shook her hand, holding it a little too long.
“Elliot Brooks,” he introduced himself. “I’m your USO liaison for the tour.”
Kaitlin introduced herself and then took him over to Robbie, who was standing in the shade of the aircraft’s wing, looking bemused.
“Mr. West … Robbie. I’m Elliot Brooks, your …”
“Yes, USO liaison. Pleased to meet you,” said Robbie, although he didn’t look that sure that he was.
I was starting to respect our singer’s ability to judge character.
“Now, can we get everyone on board please,” commanded Brooks.
I’m sure I saw Kaitlin wrinkle her nose as he said it. This could be fun.
As we entered the aircraft through the forward door, the plane seemed to tower above us. Both Greatrex and I knew there were going to be groans of disappointment from our colleagues who were traveling military style for the first time. We were not wrong, there were no comfortable airline seats, no overhead lockers and, more to the point for a bunch of musicians, no stylish flight attendants to pamper us. There was a row of pull-down seats against the wall of each side of the aircraft, and a few additional seats bolted in the middle. The cabin had no windows but a lot of space for our equipment.
Most people seemed a little perturbed. Even Brian seemed to lose his boyish optimism. Robbie West was fine; he’d done all this before, way back when …
As I squeezed past Elliot Brooks, he seemed to be doing his best to impress Kaitlin.
“Now, I’m sure everybody will get used to this,” he said. “If you’re worried about anything, just ask. I’ve done a lot of tours, so I’m fairly battle hardened.”
I felt the bile sticking in my throat. Brooks then turned to me and held out his hand.
“Elliot Brooks, USO liaison.”
“Nicholas Sharp, keyboard player,” I returned.
“Don’t worry, Nick; this trip won’t be as bad as you think. You’ll get used to a little hardship in no time.”
Bile rising higher. I heard Greatrex chuckle as he sat down. I wouldn’t need an M40A5 rifle to take Brooks out from my seat.
My ears must have been playing tricks on me because I was sure I heard Kaitlin whisper to Brooks the words “former Marine sniper.”
I may have imagined that I saw Brooks turn a little pale. While being slightly satisfied with the interaction I was also slightly worried. I had never told Kaitlin anything about my military past, and not many people in my new world know about my previous life. How and why did Kaitlin know?
Thirty minutes later we were all on board and the gear was secured. Some other musicians and entertainers who were part of the tour had joined us. They seemed an interesting bunch, but I didn’t know any of them. Our US Air Force crew made an appearance, introduced themselves to us, and assured us our eighteen-hour flight to Kuwait, and the following tour, should be uneventful. The engines started, and we began to move.
As we lifted off it really began to hit me. I was going back to Iraq. I was returning to the one place on the globe where I had been forced to confront the bleakest side of humanity, and I was going there under duress. Two of the people I loved most in the world, Leyla and Amira, were being held captive by a madman, their lives in peril if I did not confront this darkness again. I couldn’t bear to think about the big picture. What would happen if our reluctant mission for Giles Winter proved successful and we brought his haul of chemical weapons home?
Of one thing I was sadly certain of, this tour was going to be far from uneventful.
13
It was over the mid-Atlantic that the nightmares began.
I was laying prone on a flat rooftop in Baghdad. The dry heat was overpowering, and I was bathed in sweat. Greatrex was next to me, watching below and watching my back. In my hands was my M40A5 bolt-action sniper rifle. Looking through the scope, I could see our boys were going door to door down a narrow street, clearing each building of insurgent activity. It was my job to protect them. It was my job to be the protector. I was looking for insurgent snipers, bombers, anyone suspicious, I felt uneasy, I could feel something was about to happen. There was a noise on the street that was intersecting with where our Marines were. I know I heard something. Then there was a man; he was holding something, a grenade, a Russian one. I couldn’t get a clear shot. He was going to throw it …
I woke up. I looked around the large aircraft. Others were either sleeping, using iPads, or talking quietly. I dozed off again …
I was playing piano at Medina’s. It was a warm evening, and the crowd was into the music. Then there was a crash, the sound of a door being smashed open. I looked up from the piano. There was Giles Winter. In one hand he was holding Leyla with Amira clinging on to her. They were both frightened.
“I told you what would happen, Sharp.” It was Winter’s cold, raspy voice. “This is your doing.”
Winter’s other hand held a rifle—my rifle. He pointed it at Amira.
“No, no,” I tried to scream, but I couldn’t make a sound.
Then …
Back on a rooftop in Baghdad. It was different this time. It was a different street, different time of day. I was in the same prone position, Greatrex still beside me. Through the scope I saw our men, single file down each side of the street. We had cleared this area before, why were we here again? Again, a noise, a door opened, a man in robes came out. I couldn’t see his face, but the Marines did not seem perturbed by his appearance. He offered something to the Marines, or was he about to throw something, or was he just offering his hand? My earpiece crackled, “Do you have a clear shot?”
“Yes.”
“Take it.”
I found the Iraqi man within my sights. I still couldn’t see his face or what was in his hands.
“Take the goddamn shot,” my earphones crackled again.
Orders and reflexes. A soldier’s world. I took aim. As I pulled the trigger the Iraqi man turned, as if looking up at me. I wanted to freeze, but I was trained not to. Then I saw the face of Akram Salib disappear into a bloody cloud just as I heard the shot. My shot.
“Nicholas, Nick, wake up.”
I could feel someone shaking me as the hot rooftop and bloody scene in Baghdad receded. I could see Kaitlin’s face in front of me.
“That must have been a hell of a dream,” she said.
I could see several faces around the plane staring at me.
“Look at you, you’re a mess.” Kaitlin’s concerned face.
I was shivering and covered in sweat. Greatrex was also looking at me from his seat across the plane, his face also wearing concern.
“I guess I just don’t like flying,” said the conflicted man, just as loud as my voice could make it.
I looked around again; no one seemed to believe me.
For that matter, I didn’t believe myself.
The afternoon sun reflected off the hot sands of a desert landscape shrouded in haze as we touched down at Ali Al Salem Air Base, twenty-three miles from the Iraqi border on the Kuwait side. Although owned by the Kuwaiti government, the base was the launching platform for coalition operations in Iraq and Afghanistan. This seemingly endless city of tents and barracks was host to units from across the globe. “The Rock,” as Ali Al Salem was nicknamed, was a hub of military activity, day and night.
As we stepped onto the tarmac from the C-17 I felt a wave of oppressive heat envelop me. It was as though we had just stepped into an oven. Although Greatrex and I were expecting it, others in our party who were first-timers in this part of the world were a bit shocked at the extreme temperature.
“It’s worse than a packed LA nightclub at 2 a.m. in summer,” observed Brian.
“Just keep a close eye on all the guitars,” said the ever-observant Greatrex. “Wooden instruments don’t take to kindly to the extreme changes in temperature. Moving from cold high altitudes down to the 120 degrees Fahrenheit on the desert floor can warp timber terribly.”
At that point every guitarist in our party started worrying about something other than the weather.
Elliot Brooks, the USO man, was talking to some army personnel a little distance away. Kaitlin Reed had been talking with them as well but walked back to our group.
“We’ll be spending the night here before going on to Baghdad in the morning,” she said. “The good news is we get VIP accommodation. The bad news is the VIP accommodation is about the same as a campsite, but at least we’ll be out of the sun.”
Brooks joined us. “Although there is no show booked for here, the commanding officer was wondering if you guys would mind putting on a small acoustic performance for some of the personnel this evening?”
“We are tired, we are hungry, and we are so incredibly overheated,” said Robbie West. “Of course we’d love to put on a show; count me in.” Robbie the trooper, leading the way.
After a round of “yeah, I’m in” from around the tour party, we were shown to some jeeps that took us to our VIP quarters. Some of the road crew stayed and immediately started working with the military guys to get the gear unloaded and ready for the evening’s performance. Maybe the cultural divide wasn’t that big after all.
It felt a bit strange being on an US military base but not wearing a uniform. It was almost like Pavlov’s dogs. I had not been in uniform or permanently armed for years, yet in this atmosphere I kept feeling underdressed without a flak jacket. Unbelievably, I actually reached down for my rifle a couple of times. Clearly, I was conditioned.
After finding our accommodation, catching a couple of hours sleep, thankfully with no more nightmares, I was awake, showered and ready to prowl. Brian Pitt came with me. Greatrex had gone with the other crew members to set up the equipment, my keyboards in particular. A jeep was waiting to take us to the MWR (morale, welfare and recreation) facility where the performance would be. I was glad because we would probably never have found the place on our own. As we drove past row upon row of tents, I was reminded what our servicemen give up to defend our freedom. Our little visit here was a small inconvenience in the privileged and relatively pampered life I now led. It was as though I was a visitor to my own past.
