by Brian Haig
Indeed, this was what distinguished this flight, and certainly what separated these passengers, from any of the other half million international travelers flying over the world’s oceans at that moment. These passengers didn’t want to be here, weren’t looking forward to the destination, and nobody had a guaranteed return ticket.
I sometimes envy guys like Howser; they have somebody to come home to, somebody who wants them home. For some odd reason, Bian and the photograph of her beloved fiancé, Major Mark Kemble, popped to mind.
My gut instincts said that Bian’s seemingly illogical enthusiasm for this mission had something to do with him, mixed, perhaps, with a lingering feeling of injustice over her father and Vietnam, a war lost, ultimately, because America lost faith in the cause. These are powerful furies to carry in your heart and your mind—love and ghosts, the living and the dead, the man she loved today, and a war that stole her chance to love her father.
In the words of Tennessee Williams, the heart is the most stubborn organ. About women, that sounds about right. About men, he definitely overlooked a more stubborn organ.
Which opened the question of what motives placed me on this plane, headed off as I was to do something my instincts said was foolhardy, my legal judgment said was wrong, and in my professional judgment, bordered on suicidal.
I recalled my father’s favorite admonition: Never let your dick write a check. Good advice, Pop—but like most good advice, the devil is in the details.
In truth, Bian Tran had made a strong impression on me. Were I completely honest, I was a little smitten by her, and maybe a wee bit jealous of Major Mark Kemble. Indeed, this was a unique and spellbinding woman, a personified American dream. Arriving on our shores as a young child, impoverished, confused, homesick, and bereaved by the recent death of her father, she mastered a new language, absorbed a new culture, worked hard, marched through four years at that uniquely American institution, West Point, and, I suspected, were I to check her military file, her officer efficiency reports would be uniformly sterling.
In short, this was an intellectually gifted, forceful, driven lady. Also, as has been my experience with other immigrant children, I suspected that Bian Tran was a little hyperpatriotic regarding the ideals of her adopted land, inebriated by her sense of duty and, maybe, by her willingness to sacrifice for those she loved. It’s interesting. Over 10 percent of American soldiers in Iraq weren’t even U.S. citizens, just hungry young people trying to earn the dream.
Those of us born with the silver spoon of citizenry in our lips, I think, tend to be more convinced that we deserve our American birthright, particularly its fruits and indulgences over its labors and burdens. I did not think, though, that Bian was a mindless fanatic; in fact, I was sure that something else, something more—perhaps love, perhaps guilt, perhaps both—was driving her. I would have to keep an eye on that.
Also I didn’t trust Phyllis. Well, I didn’t trust the CIA. In my months in this job, I had found these were good people, patriotic, courageous, and enormously talented, who nearly always do what they think is best for the Republic. The problem is, they do it behind a curtain of smoke and mirrors; this isn’t always a temptation to good judgment, or worse, good results.
Anyway, Captain Howser recognized a pal at the front of the plane and excused himself. This apparently required an exchange of seats, as, shortly afterward, a man, large and burly, with the stripes and diamond of a first sergeant on his collar lumbered down the aisle toward me. The name patch on his chest read Jackson, and he looked at me and said, “You mind, Colonel?”
“If you have a photo album, I mind a lot.”
He laughed. “Divorced. Twice. How about I tell you what complete bitches they were?” Whereupon he fell into the seat and stretched out.
On his left shoulder, I observed the patch of the First Infantry Division—his current unit of assignment—and on his right shoulder, that of the Third Armored Division, a unit he served with in a previous war, or on a previous tour in this war. He was a combat veteran several times over with that weary, deromanticized, been-there-donethat look of somebody who was too tired to talk about it.
He said to me, “You’re JAG.” His eyes moved to my shoulder where there was no unit patch. “Where you assigned in Iraq?”
“I’m not.”
“Then why—”
“I’m a tourist. Maybe you can recommend a good hotel. A pool and spa would be nice. A good, well-stocked bar would be more than nice.”
“You’re nuts.” He laughed.
“Me? Who’s coming back a second time?” I informed him, “It’s temporary duty. Just in and out.”
“Oh . . .” I thought for a moment he was going to knock me out with his beefy fists and trade uniforms.
“Meeting a client,” I told him. That, in fact, was my cover, and should anyone ask, that’s also what it said on the phony orders in my breast pocket. Good covers are always based on fact, and in reality, there was a prisoner facing charges, though he hadn’t yet been assigned counsel. I had even briefly studied his case file to substantiate my cover; the guy didn’t have a prayer.
“What’s his tit ’n a ringer for?” Jackson asked.
This seemed like a good chance to practice my cover, and I replied, “Mistreatment of an Iraqi prisoner.”
“They’re real sensitive about that these days.”
“Sure are.”
“Ever since that Abu Ghraib thing.”
“Yep.”
“That was a bunch of wacko idiots, you ask me. What the hell were they thinking?”
“They weren’t. They were just doing.”
After a moment he asked, “Your guy, he do it?”
“Never touched the guy.”
“Uh-huh.”
“But I think the seven witnesses and the victim’s broken jaw from the rifle butt might prove a little tricky in court.”
He laughed. “I can see where that could be a problem.”
That about covered everything I knew, so to change the subject I asked him, “So how is it over there?”
He took a moment to contemplate this question. “Sucks.”
Any soldier who is happy in a war zone needs his head checked. I asked him, “But is it worth it?”
He understood what I was asking and replied, “Is now.”
“Why now?”
“You know Tennyson?” After a moment, he clarified. “Alfred . . . the English poet.” And then he quoted, “‘Ours is not to reason why, ours is but to do or die.’”
“ ‘Charge of the Light Brigade,’” I replied.
“Says it all.”
“Bullshit.”
He laughed. “Complete bullshit.” He twisted sideways and faced me. “A month ago I sent home two of my kids in body bags, and I damn sure give a shit that my soldiers are dead.” He soberly contemplated his combat boots. “Now it better be worth it.”
I looked out the window at the expansive blue sky, at the marshmallow clouds below, and off in the distance, I noted a jet contrail headed in the direction we had just come from. Possibly that sleek silver container also was filled with soldiers, their year at war over, their minds choked with memories of long, tedious days, of comrades wounded, mangled, and worse.
And it struck me that Bian was right about one thing—we could blow the lid off this war—and among some on this plane, I would end up man of the year, and among most, loathed.
First Sergeant Jackson closed his eyes. Field soldiers have the stamina of babies, and within thirty seconds he was comatose and snoring loudly. Time for business. I opened my legal briefcase, withdrew a thick sheath of papers, took a moment to clear my mind, and dug in.
I recalled the old Army saying—a plan lasts until the second it’s implemented. I have found this to be generally true, but I think it’s important to have one, to have a baseline, and if you’ve really done your homework, workable options for when the poop flies. What we had in this case was seat-of-your-pants bullshit.
&nbs
p; The basic idea—what the Army calls a POW snatch; POW standing for prisoner of war, and snatch implying the goombah in question might not be a willing participant. Such operations are always risky, as bad guys invariably hang around their own neighborhoods, usually in the company of other bad guys, and you have to be quick or you end up on the short end of the stick. There are, in fact, times when the roles become reversed, but it’s bad luck to dwell on that—and hard not to.
In the interest of airtight secrecy, rather than rely on career Agency types or even uniformed military who might become nosy about Sean Drummond and Mr. Ali bin Pacha, the heavy-lifting stage of this mission was going to be done by private contractors employed by Phyllis.
These were people who had done work for the Agency before, and they passed the entrance exam; they were still alive to do another job. They are not mercenaries, mind you, and they are sure to point that out to you; they are patriotic Americans, mostly former Army and Navy Special Forces types who are still serving their country, and it just happens to be for more money.
And why not? They get one to two hundred grand a year, less Mickey Mouse, bosses they can talk back to, and when they’re tired of it, they cash out and walk. This might be a workable option for Drummond’s second career.
On the brighter side, they are professionals, usually handpicked, highly experienced, and they don’t get jobs unless they produce bang for the buck.
Oh, yes—that unsettling matter of my trust issues with my boss. I wasn’t completely paranoid, yet I was aware of another big advantage of private contractors. They aren’t accountable to anybody except the name on the paycheck, no questions asked. Not that I expected a bullet in the back of my head. It was a factor to bear in mind, though.
Of course, Phyllis would never do that to me. We were friends. Right?
Anyway, before I departed I was given the name of my contact, Eric Finder—a hopeful surname for this job—the location for our meeting, and even passwords we would exchange to confirm our bona fides. How cool is that?
Inside my legal case were street maps and satellite photos of Falluja—where Ali bin Pacha was in residence—a few thick binders filled with information about that city, and various threat assessments produced by in-country CIA types regarding a man named Ahmad Fadil Nazzal al-Khalayleh, who was a Jordanian by birth, nom de guerre al-Zarqawi, and some of his known associates—Mr. Ali bin Pacha’s name, incidentally, was nowhere on that list.
The general thrust was this: Mr. al-Zarqawi ran a rough outfit. The exact size of his organization was unknown, and ditto for its makeup and exact membership. It was presumed to include a small, die-hard, highly trusted cadre, a few hundred warriors and kamikazes, and probably a few thousand sympathizers who provided safe houses, transportation, odd jobs, logistics, intelligence gathering, and whatever.
These people were a mixture of Iraqis and foreign talent, and it was notable that the local Sunni populace were largely on his side, not ours. In fact, Zarqawi was regarded locally as a Robin Hood type, despite taking money from the rich and giving only death to the poor. Lately, however, killing Americans was becoming too risky and difficult, so he had shifted his sights to murdering Iraqis, often indiscriminately, which was wearing thin with some locals.
Here’s what was known: The structure of his organization was basically cellular and compartmentalized; small groups, connected vertically, not laterally, so no hands knew what the others were doing. A number of these cells had been captured or infiltrated; yet, to date, nobody had fingered the man himself, which was interesting.
A twenty-five-million-buck warrant was on Zarqawi’s head; this in a part of the world where two grand was enough to sell your adorable, beloved daughter to a stinky camel farmer. This suggested that al-Zarqawi was either very good, very feared, very lucky, or very ruthless, none of which are mutually exclusive.
Nothing that I read here was news, of course. As with the rest of the conscious American public, I knew about Mr. al-Zarqawi and about his more flamboyant idiosyncrasies. He liked seeing his masked face on the tube, and he knew how to sweep Nielson ratings, as our broadcaster friends say. His particular form of attention-seeking behavior was making home videos of himself beheading helpless captives, which tells you he has a few big issues with Western civilization. Also, if Sean Drummond fell into his hands, I might be in for a very dramatic, one-act theater career.
Anyway, after two hours of reading and studying, I remembered I had slept only three hours the previous night. I stretched, put my papers away, locked my briefcase, and within seconds was sound asleep.
I would like to say I rested fitfully and experienced pleasant dreams, but when I awoke, here’s the dream I remembered: I was kneeling on a small dark mat, three tall figures stood behind me, black masks covered their heads, coarse tape covered my mouth, a hand was tugging my head backward, and I could see a large, crisp blade hovering in front of my throat, moving closer . . . closer . . . and . . .
CHAPTER NINETEEN
What jarred me awake were the wheels of the big 747 bouncing and skidding on hard tarmac. I opened my eyes, looked out the window, and got my first clue of something gone wrong—the airport. It shouldn’t be, yet this airport looked familiar, and I knew I had been here before. The cobwebs cleared, and I knew where I was: Kuwait.
The second tip-off was the pilot announcing in that smooth, everything’s-just-fucking-fine tone, “Ladies and gentlemen, thank you for flying United. For your safety, we were diverted from Baghdad Airport, which is currently experiencing a serious threat from surface-to-air missiles. I apologize for any inconvenience. When you deplane, you’ll be met by representatives from the armed forces who will connect you with ground convoys heading north.”
This isn’t the kind of announcement you hear on domestic routes. But this guy was so slick, for a moment I thought I was on a normal flight and we were about to be promised free food vouchers to mollify our discontentment, or whatever.
His tone then turned funereal, and he added, “It has been our distinct honor to have you on board and . . . and . . . and from the bottom of my heart, on behalf of the entire crew . . . God bless you all.”
You could almost hear a collective gulp from his passengers. A simple good luck would’ve been sufficient, thank you.
Anyway, he parked his big plane in the middle of a large empty ramp, off to the right of the runway where there were no other aircraft, and neither was there a terminal. The night was pitch-dark, yet the airport was well lit, and I could observe trucks moving around, all of them American military vehicles.
I checked my watch, which I had already preset to local time—
4:00 a.m. An elevated stairway was rolled up, and we deplaned and waited in a large gaggle on the tarmac while our duffel bags and personal gear were unloaded down a long rolling ramp and arranged in a long line for pickup.
Several officious-looking types with MP brassards on their arms and clipboards and flashlights in their hands began corralling the troops and loudly directing them to various holding areas, depending on their units and ultimate destinations in Iraq. The Army has a reputation for efficiency that is rarely merited, which is why “Hurry up and wait” is the unofficial Army motto. Except when it’s to the Army’s advantage; then the anal minds kick in and usually get it right.
First Sergeant Jackson and I shook hands and wished each other good luck. I quietly separated myself from the group, confident that Phyllis had learned about this unexpected diversion and made the proper arrangements.
I wouldn’t trust Phyllis with my life. But I definitely trust her to get me where she wants me to be.
The weather was nice, incidentally, mid-seventies, without a hint of rain, almost balmy. Definitely nicer than October in Washington. Bermuda was nicer still.
After a moment of wandering around I observed a soldier using a flashlight to brighten a handwritten sign that read, “LTC Drummond.”
I approached him and confessed that that would be me; in response
, he offered a sloppy salute and informed me that his name was “Carl Smith . . . PFC Smith, Eighteenth Transportation Battalion,” and explained he would be my chauffeur for the drive up to Baghdad.
I spent a moment doing the senior officer thing, asking Smith a few shallow, innocuous questions, as he did his respectful subordinate thing, offering brief, perfunctory replies. The senior officer is expected to show a personal interest in his or her subordinates, regardless of how temporary or ephemeral the relationship. On the surface, this translates as concern, and establishes rapport. But neither has it escaped my notice that the normal nature of these inquiries— married status, hometown, family, that kind of thing—correspond to exactly the data an officer needs to know for a next-of-kin letter.
Anyway, Carl Smith. He was dark-haired and dark-skinned, and he informed me that he was thirty-two, yes, a little damned old for his rank, divorced—damned happy about that—an Alabamian—damned proud of that—and, like many of his peers, in a fit of angered idealism had rushed into an Army recruiter’s station the day after September 11—a decision he now looked back on as damned impetuous.
He appeared unusually fit for a transportation guy, but probably Carl had a lot of free time to spend in the weight room. Booze is prohibited for soldiers inside the war zone, and Arab women aren’t turned on by Christian men. When all else fails, you turn to the worst vice: exercise.
He led me to a dust-coated humvee; I threw my duffel in the back, climbed into the passenger seat, and off we went at a good clip. Military humvees, incidentally, aren’t the gaudy gas munchers that are so la-di-da among Hollywood’s spoiled and beautiful. They’re diesel for one thing, but also they’re more primitive and entirely lacking in bling, such as sound muffling, air-conditioning, or entertainment systems of any form, with seats that are ergonomic atrocities. But as our Chinese friends say, a thousand sins can be overcome by one great virtue; I was relieved to see the one accessory that counts in these parts, the newest up-to-date armor.
