The Eyes of Others
MIKAEL CARLSON
Warrington Publishing
New York
The Eyes of Others
Copyright © 2015 by Mikael Carlson
Warrington Publishing
P.O. Box 2349
New York, NY 10163
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted by any means – electronic, mechanical, photographic (photocopying), recording, or otherwise – without prior permission in writing from the author. For such requests, address Warrington Press, c/o Subsidiary Rights Department, P.O. Box 2349, New York, New York 10163.
Printed in the United States of America
First Edition
ISBN: 978-0-9897673-8-5
978-0-9897673-9-2 (ebook)
Cover design
R. Atanassova (Elementi Studio)
www.elementi-studio.com
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
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Also by Mikael Carlson:
- The Michael Bennit Series -
The iCandidate
The iCongressman
The iSpeaker
The iAmerican
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For all the members of the United States Armed Forces I have had the privilege of serving with during my career, especially the men and women of the 110th Public Affairs Detachment & Special Operations Detachment―Global of the Rhode Island National Guard, members of Special Operations Command – South, and the paratroopers at Fort Bragg, North Carolina.
Dedicated on their behalf to all service members who are suffering from the lingering effects of war.
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“Dreams are today’s answers to tomorrow’s questions.”
― Edgar Cayce
“Espionage, for the most part, involves finding a person who knows something or has something that you can induce them secretly to give to you. That almost always involves a betrayal of trust.”
― Aldrich Ames
“There is a difference between not knowing anything and understanding that you don’t know.”
― Tom Clancy in The Sum of All Fears
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~ PROLOGUE ~
eugene “Boston” hollinger
Al-Anbar Province, Western Iraq
I hate this place. For the seven years I have been assigned to intelligence units since joining the military, the focus centered on winning the war against the Taliban in Afghanistan. My first deployment as an intelligence analyst was in the rough terrain of Afghanistan back in 2011. My second was during the drawdown that saw most NATO troops leave the country. The “graveyard of empires” was hardly a garden spot, but I would rather be there than here. Iraq is much worse.
Over the past few years, ISIS has consolidated its hold on a large swath of Iraq and started coordinating brazen attacks by its followers on the home front. Politicians weary of war, but equally wary of explaining to their constituents why we are not meeting the threat head on, saw fit to send a task force into the country to help our Iraqi allies to turn the tide. So, here I am, baking in this desert. Satan’s disciples would be eager to return to hell after spending seven months in this country like I have.
I pull the small towel out of my cargo pocket as I walk and mop the sweat off the back of my neck. The temperatures here at al-Asad Airbase are already unbearable and it’s only June. I’m sweating like a nun in a whorehouse and I’ve only covered half the distance to the motor pool where my team awaits.
With nothing to do but enjoy the scenery on the way, I study the structures that make up the sprawling base. The Iraqis really must have let this place go after the last American troops left in 2011. What a dump. Once home to units including the 2nd Marine Expeditionary Force, elements of the 82nd Airborne, and the 3rd Infantry Division, this patch of dirt remained one of the last American-occupied bases in the waning days of the Iraq War. Located in the strategically important Iraqi province of Al-Anbar, now the airbase has regained its significance as the United States ramps up its operations against the Islamic State. Civilians better know them as ISIS.
“Georgia, what the hell’s so damn funny?” I say once I finally reach the motor pool and get within earshot of the rest of my team gathered around an up-armored Humvee.
I heard her giggling uncontrollably like a little child from forty feet away. Like most of my team, she’s in her early twenties and should be enjoying life after just graduating college. Instead, she chose a different path which led her to the United States Army, the 513th Military Intelligence Brigade at Fort Gordon, and now here. Sitting on the hood of the Hummer, wisps of blonde hair peeking out from her helmet, she only starts giggling harder.
“She’s been like this since breakfast,” Colombia responds from the other side of the truck. Not bothering to look up, he continues to flip his helmet in his hand. A twenty-two-year-old Specialist, E-4, he’s the most nonchalant of the group. Colombia goes about things like he doesn’t have a care in the world. His only ambition in life is to find a rich sugar mama and live large on a beach someplace nice. With his Latin looks and suave demeanor, I don’t think he’ll have a problem pulling that off when his enlistment ends.
“Okay, which one of you dumb asses gave her caffeine this morning?” I ask the group, knowing the cause of Georgia’s giggle fits all too well.
Maryland is in the passenger seat wiping down his rifle. He’s the most serious and mission-oriented of all of us. All he wants to do is get the mission done and get home, or so he whines to us almost every day. I look over at him and get my answer. One of the two other buck sergeants on my team, he points across to his counterpart with an annoyed look on his face.
Louisiana is smoking a cigarette as he leans against the hood on the driver side of the vehicle with another literary masterpiece opened in front of him. Realizing his rival just dimed him out, he puts on his patented face of mock surprise. The prankster of the group, the pudgy bastard would have been my first choice as instigator anyway. What he lacks in stature and athletic ability he makes up in attitude and, believe it or not, intelligence.
“Maryland, why you always blamin’ me, bro?” Louisiana protests in his thick Cajun accent.
“Maybe because you’re the one always doing stupid crap,” Maryland responds, only half-joking. Or not joking at all. You can’t tell the difference with him.
“Like what? Name one time I’ve done anythin’ stupid.” He left that wide open.
“The strip club in Augusta,” Maryland exclaims from inside the Humvee.
“The ATM at the PX before we left Fort Gordon,” Colombia adds with a grin on his face.
“The flight attendant on the plane to Kuwait,” Georgia tosses in for good measure. “Bow-chicka-whah-whah!”
I shake my head as she launches into another fit of giggles. We may be unorthodox, but we’re the best damned military intelligence team in this country. After seven months of this deployment, we’ve become a tight-knit group. It’s also why we dumped calling each other by our rank and last name and use the names of our home city, state, or country instead. Boston, Maryland, Louisiana, Georgia, and Colombia―we’re intelligence analysts and a walking geography lesson.
“How ’bout you, Boston? You wanna add to the list of my transgressions?” Louisiana asks. I don’t have to think about it for very long.
“Did anyone mention you almost burning the general’s house down your second month in the unit?” I reply with a smile. At least I’m smiling now. It wasn’t so funny for me as a staff sergeant sta
nding in front of a very angry colonel.
“Hold on, wait a sec!” Louisiana shouts before grinning broadly. “I had accomplices for that one.”
“Yeah, Sergeant Jack Daniels, Specialist Johnnie Walker, and Private Jim Beam,” Colombia announces in his typical James Dean cool manner.
“The three wise men that always manage to turn Louisiana into a complete idiot,” Maryland needles. Like brothers, they have spent their time in country jumping up and down on each other’s nerves.
“Wow. There’s a whole lotta sell-outery goin’ on here,” Louisiana decrees, eliciting snickers from the group.
“So, Boston, why are we going to Baghdad? And why are we going by convoy instead of hopping on a Blackhawk?” Maryland questions in his typical whiney voice.
“Oh, is the army inconveniencing you by not respecting your preferred travel wishes?” Louisiana retorts.
“Shut up and read your trashy novel, Louisiana,” Maryland barks.
“Trashy? It happens to be Dante’s Inferno, one of the world’s literary classics, you uneducated oaf.”
“I’m surprised it’s not porn,” Georgia giggles from the hood.
“No way, darlin’. That was last night’s entertainment,” Louisiana replies with a wink.
“Can I get my question answered?” Maryland demands.
“Yes, please, answer the baby before he has another temper tantrum,” Colombia muses.
“Hey, dumb ass, the roads in and out of this province are crawling with ISIS fighters. We were mortared twice yesterday alone, or have you all forgotten?” Maryland asks. “If this briefing is so damn important, I want to know why they are making us take the risk of running the gauntlet.”
Since way back in late October 2014, the airbase has been under repeated attack by Islamic State militants. When the U.S. sent advisers to Iraq to help them confront the threat, they relied on the Iraqi Army for security. Following the subsequent terror attacks in Europe and the United States that ISIS and al-Qaeda took credit for during the final two years of the Obama administration and the beginning of his successor’s term, the political climate changed.
The new commander-in-chief decided to increase our military footprint in the region almost immediately following the inauguration. Now there is an expeditionary force of over fifteen thousand soldiers and marines on the ground, but the situation hasn’t changed much. It’s still extremely dangerous outside the perimeter of this airbase.
“Do I look like a damn travel agent to you, Maryland?” I ask as American infantry troops and their Iraqi counterparts begin loading into the vehicles around us. “Besides, it’s not like we don’t have plenty of friends going with us. Now mount up.”
“You sure you don’t need me to hang back in the rear?” he pleads from the passenger seat.
“Maryland, your aversion to going outside of the wire is well understood, but if I wanted you in the SCIF, I would have told you to report there.”
In intelligence parlance, the “skiff,” as it is pronounced, is actually the Sensitive Compartmented Information Facility where we analyze classified material. It’s an enclosed structure with stringent access controls and is restricted solely to personnel who have passed a thorough background check and granted clearance to enter. We just think of it as our office.
“Aw, is the little fobbit afraid to go on our little field trip?” Louisiana mocks, rubbing his eyes to wipe away the fake tears as the convoy begins to line up.
“Fobbit” is a derogatory word used to shame soldiers afraid to head outside of the base. Just as most hobbits from Lord of the Rings never left the Shire, most fobbits never leave the forward operating base, or FOB. Technically, this airbase isn’t a FOB, but the term is still applicable. Maryland is the unchallenged king of them in this country.
“Shut up, dude, before you get some unlicensed dental work. I’m not scared and you know it,” Maryland threatens. He likes to talk tough, but this dog has no bite.
“Bro, you don’t have the muscle strength to open a can of Coke, so what’re ya goin’ to do?” Louisiana retorts.
“I’m going to break both of your jaws if you don’t shut your traps. Now, mount up,” I bark, waving my finger in a circle over my head. “Maryland, crank it up, you’re driving. Colombia, you get the turret.”
“Aw, hell, why do I always get the turret?”
“Hadji thinks you’re too pretty to shoot,” Louisiana speculates.
“Aw, you’re friggin’ hilarious, you walking Twinkie. But you’re also probably right,” Colombia agrees, stroking his hair before putting his helmet on.
The team finally climbs in the vehicle as I move to the passenger side and evaluate my escorts. Everyone armed to the teeth and geared up in the same body armor we are. I don’t know if they expect trouble or are just loaded for bear. Not that I think the added firepower will calm Maryland’s nerves, but it makes me feel better about our escort and beats the alternative of travelling alone. Ground convoys are risky, but taking a single vehicle back to the capital from this part of Anbar is a suicide mission.
Briefings and radio checks completed, the amalgamation of Humvees and trucks exits the base in a long line and meanders down the dangerous road towards Baghdad. Turret gunners manning heavy weapons provide an element of intimidation, but just like in the Iraq War and in Afghanistan, the real threat is from the improvised explosive devices that could be planted alongside the road at any point of our route.
For most road warriors trekking to work in the U.S., the biggest concern they have is making certain not to rear end someone when they cut you off. The only mental energy they expend is listening to the traffic report on the local radio station to figure out how to get out of the bumper-to-bumper traffic. I can’t wait to get back to those problems. A tragedy back home is spilling coffee on your work clothes.
Here, you cringe as you pass every vehicle, trash can, and rock on the side of the road. Anything can be an improvised explosive device just waiting to explode and kill you. The larger the convoy, the more enticing a target it is. The next few hours will be spent watching for these IEDs, scanning for potential ambushes, and listening to Louisiana talk about sex. This is my normal.
“Hey, Colombia, you doing all right up there?” Maryland shouts from the driver seat as the base becomes a dot in the rearview mirror and we venture deeper into territory firmly under the control of the Islamic State.
“Oh yeah, peachy.”
“Peachy!” Georgia screeches from the back driver-side seat as she breaks into another annoying fit of giggling. I look back behind my seat and glare at Louisiana.
“I’m going to beat you senseless tonight,” I tell him.
“Promise?” he responds, blowing me a kiss.
“Boston, in all seriousness, why are we doing a briefing now? We told the major about the possibility of these leaks a month ago,” Maryland complains from next to me.
“Because the situation has changed.”
“In what way?” Louisiana asks, now leaning his head between us from the rear of the truck.
“Special Operations launched a raid last night to nab Ikleel al Sayidul Mursaleen and some other HVTs.”
“Yeah, and?”
“And he got wind of the operation somehow. He bugged out an hour before the SEALs arrived and left an ambush waiting for them instead.”
“Damn,” Louisiana laments. “That’s convenient.”
“Any casualties?”
“A couple, but the SEALs all made it out of there alive at least,” I inform them. “It was a high-visibility operation. The brass was counting on extracting information from those high-value targets. Marry that with what we’ve uncovered over the past couple of months in other operations and you get a career-oriented major with a keen interest in what we have to say.”
“Who’s your money on, Bos?”
“The origin of the intelligence has come from various sources, mostly the CIA and NSA. All of it was cycled through one group for analysis tho
ugh, and that’s where I think our leak is.”
“The Defense Intelligence Agency,” Maryland concludes.
“Bingo. I sent a report through channels with my suspicions last week. The major didn’t pay it much attention until he travelled to Baghdad to meet with the general and heard about what happened to the SEALs.”
“And we get to take a field trip to the big city as a reward,” Maryland bemoans.
“Damn, bro. Are you going to cry about that all the―”
A blinding light precedes a deafening blast and a wall of dust, as the vehicle is suddenly lifted from the road. The world spins. We’re spinning. I need to hang on. Metal groans as the vehicle crashes hard back to ground.
My ears are ringing … loudest shriek ever. What’s going on? Where am I? Sharp pain … in my head. Feels like it’s … split open. Everything hurts.
I see movement … the shattered windshield … everything’s hazy. Muffled voices … soldiers? My team? Shouting barely registers … I can’t understand. Hands grab at me … I’m not where I was. Sharp pain in my shoulder … I feel like I’m being dragged into … the bright light makes me wince. Head is pounding … getting worse. Hurts so bad.
More yelling … I hear popping sounds. Is someone shooting at me? What is … going on? I search the sky above me … streaks of light … smoke …
“RPGs! Take cover!” I hear the voice next to me scream. Another jolt of pain goes through my body as I am jerked along the ground.
“They’re targeting the middle Hummer!” another voice bellows over the din. “Move the wounded! Now!”
I feel dirt kick up into my face as a soldier drops next to me. I try to move my left arm … nothing happens. I move my right hand … I can touch my face. It’s sticky and wet. I try to focus … on my fingers. Is that blood? Is it my blood?
The Eyes of Others Page 1
