The cost to Kuwait was immense, of course. Iraqis killed more than 1,000 Kuwaiti civilians and another 600 or so went missing. Their country was wrecked—buildings, infrastructure, power and desalination plants, you name it. However, it is amazing what a country of fewer than a million citizens with $100,000,000,000 stashed in overseas banks and investments can accomplish. By the time I told the story to Professor Pflingger, Kuwait City was rebuilt, bustling and basking in prosperity once again. With one caveat—desert treks are discouraged owing to the landmines the Iraqis spread around and never disclosed. Because of the collaboration of Palestinians with the Iraqis, in the aftermath Kuwait threw most of them out, leaving perhaps one tenth as many as before the war. Their places were filled by workers from other countries as well as by native Kuwaitis who appreciated having something worthwhile to do with themselves.
Saddam Hussein’s defeat did not change his ways, despite Iraq’s shattered infrastructure and decimated military force. The United Nations imposed myriad sanctions on post-war Iraq, which Saddam ignored and violated from the start. His troops fired missiles at American planes patrolling the no-fly zone. He embezzled the funds from petroleum sales meant to relieve the suffering of his people and spent them instead on arms and palaces. President Bush, thinking to take advantage of Saddam’s weakness, encouraged the Kurds and the Swamp Arabs to rise up against him. Too bad for them that the U.S. didn’t back up their nudging with sufficient arms and support. The Iraqi army no longer had the capability to invade its neighbors, but they had no trouble crushing the two rebellions. To underscore the point Saddam dug canals that drained the coastal swamps to a fraction of their previous area. This, plus the oil field fires and the oil spill he released, qualified Saddam Hussein as one of history’s greatest environmental criminals, among other dubious titles. Funny how little support the Sierra Club and the Friends of the Earth gave to this and the next war against Saddam. And where were their Baghdad protests and lawsuits? Hello?
Thirteen years later the U.S. fought another war with Saddam Hussein. Like in the first Gulf War President Bush (W., that is) dispatched his army quickly and efficiently. Son Uday was killed in a Mosul shootout. American troops pulled Saddam out of the spider hole where he had been hiding. He was tried, convicted and hanged for war crimes by the Iraqi government several years later.
Some critics faulted George H. W. Bush for not going all the way to Baghdad and deposing Saddam Hussein. But Bush played it by the book all the way, and the U.N. authorized his coalition only to remove the Iraqis from Kuwait. This our side did, delivering the first clear-cut American military win in nearly 50 years more efficiently and humanely than any other modern war. Unfortunately his 90% approval rating did not last long enough to win him re-election. A mild economic recession gave the Democrats a campaign issue, and they pounded away with “It’s the economy, stupid.” H. Ross Perot entered the race and split the vote, enabling Bill Clinton to win with 43% of the popular vote. Clinton won again four years later with less than 50% of the vote. To this day, despite his impeachment and disbarment, his sexual predations (with the abetment of wife Hillary) and a record of unaddressed allegations of corruption, the media tout him as a “popular president.”
Abu Ghraib prison came into the spotlight in the aftermath of the Second Gulf War. Photos of “atrocities” showed American guards humiliating Iraqi prisoners of war. Intended to embarrass and blunt the popularity (90% approval) of President George W. Bush, who had just won two of the quickest and cleanest victories in U.S. military history, Democrat-sympathetic news outlets spread Abu Ghraib photos long, far and wide. From what I saw there, Saddam’s prisoners would have paid good money to wear dog collars and pose for silly pictures in place of what his jailers inflicted on them.
The American public was treated to a cartoonish war. Smart bomb through the window—KA-BOOM! Tomahawks launched from a missile cruiser—FLASH! WHOOSH! Oh oh, Scud! Yea, Patriot! ZISS! BOOM! AHHHH! Tanks across the desert. LOOK AT ‘EM GO! This was in part because of the military’s media relations policies. The American commanders in Iraq had been junior officers in Vietnam, where they learned to view the media as the enemy. They weren’t about to let THAT happen to them again. For Desert Storm they grouped the media people into pools and herded them to what the military wanted them to see.
But war coverage has always been sanitized. Warfare has been described as endless boredom punctuated by moments of sheer terror. The media will not air boredom, and the terror part is frightening: It hurts, is deafeningly loud, smells bad and leaves blood and body parts strewn all over everywhere. Showing those realities on TV would be obscene. We’ve never been allowed to see the people jumping off the World Trade Center on 9/11. Trust our media to tell us the stories that are best for us to hear and smother the ones that aren’t.
When our troops arrived home from Desert Storm they were cheered, welcomed and praised, unlike after Vietnam. They won their war and good for them. They earned the praise they got. But the main difference between now and Nam was that it was an all-volunteer army this time, with no crowds of draft-shy college boys and their girlfriends doing everything possible to spare themselves that fate, even to the point of abusing and spitting at our men and women serving their country in uniform.
*
I’d talked to Dana Wehrli on the phone, letting her know I was all right and would be coming home soon. When I learned my flight schedule from Fawaz I called her again and arranged for her to pick me up at LAX. The hell with R and R in Paris, I wanted to get back to Malibu! Thanks to First Class the entire route I arrived well rested and reasonably presentable. Dana was waiting as I came out of customs, blonde, tanned and glowing as usual, and she planted eight months’ worth of missed kisses on me right then and there. She saw my two suitcases and looked dismayed. “What’s the trouble?” I asked.
“I don’t think they’ll fit in my new car,” she said. “It’s kind of little.”
We thought about it and hit upon the idea of having a cabbie drive them up to Malibu and leave them at my house. I got some cash at an ATM and paid the cabbie in advance, and he took off. Dana led me to short-term parking. “See?” she said. “We might have gotten one of them in the trunk, but not both.” It was a red Alfa Romeo Spider, the same model Dustin Hoffman drove down 101 in The Graduate.
“Don’t sweat it,” I said. “Let’s get home.”
“That’s another thing I need to tell you about,” she said as we climbed in. “There are some things a little different now.”
“There’s a problem with my house?”
“No, no, your house is fine, just great, don’t worry about that.” She started the car, pulled out and went to the exit. Out on the road, she continued. “I better start at the beginning. It’s because I quit ABC and got this new job. It’s with a production company, ‘Roadkill Films.’ It’s named that because we travel all over and shoot location footage for the studios. They started me out on backdrops, establishing shots, backscreen projections, scenery and so forth. Like when people are driving in a car, and you see the road from through the rear window behind them? Or on a train, and you see passing scenery through the window? We shoot the stuff you see out the window. We do it for less money than the studio could.”
We were out on the road by then. It was a snappy little car and she drove it with verve. “Sounds like interesting work.”
“Oh it really is. I’ve already produced footage for Boyz N the Hood and Thelma and Louise. Boy, the southwest—that’s some place! The Grand Canyon, you know? But the best part is, I’m learning about the film industry. At ABC all I did was shoot news stories. I’d scramble to get them wrapped, and then somebody would edit them to fit the story the executives wanted to tell, cut them to size and they’d go on the air. And then I’d do it again, and again, and again. Now I’m getting into film editing and sound mixing and process shots and everything. I never realized! I should have quit ABC years ago. I t
hought I was a producer because I could get projects done, but I knew next to nothing about the technical side.”
She went on and on about her job. During a pause I remarked that the job must pay well, considering the car she drove. “Oh, it pays okay,” she said, “but what happened was that my father died while you were away and he left me something in his will.”
“I’m sorry to hear that,” I said. “He was a good man, and I know how much you loved him.”
“Yes, it was sad. But dying of cancer, it’s awful… by the end it was a relief to everyone, especially him.”
“So what’s different about my house?” I asked. We were breezing up Pacific Coast Highway now. Unfortunately it was an overcast day in March so we couldn’t bask in the full sunbathed California convertible experience.
“I was coming to that. For the ABC Job I had to live out near Burbank, but Roadkill is in West Hollywood, which is much nearer to Malibu. After a few days I realized that commuting from Burbank to Hollywood would be a grind I didn’t need. So I looked around for a place where I could live closer to work. I have a lot of friends around Hollywood, of course, but it seemed like it would be lonely moving into a new apartment just like that. I looked at a few and checked out some condos but I didn’t have a lot of time for house hunting and I needed to do something about the situation soon, so I moved out of my apartment and sort of, well, you know, like moved into your house? Only temporarily! I mean just until I can find a suitable place of my own. When your friend I talked to on the phone said you wanted me to take care of your house I flashed that I could take better care of it if I was living right there in it… so I sort of temporarily moved in. I felt alone after Dad’s passing and being there in a familiar place with your things and so forth, well, it was comforting, like your spirit was there with me.”
“I’m always happy to help out a girlfriend in distress,” I said. “So, what’s different about it?”
“We’re almost there. Maybe it’s better if I show you.” A couple more miles to the intersection, then along Malibu Road and Dana turned into my driveway. My banged-up Cherokee sat on the apron out of the way. She poked a button on the sun visor and the garage door rolled up. “Hey, when did that happen?” I said.
“I thought I should protect my paint job in your garage and this made getting in so much more convenient, so I had it put in as a sort of homecoming present for you,” she said.
We got out and went into the laundry room through the garage entrance. It seemed more cluttered than I remembered. Upstairs I found my kitchen chairs and tables were in new places. “You moved my furniture?”
“Only a little, so things wouldn’t be in the way. Just a sec.” She went to the fridge and came back with an open bottle of Dos Equis. “I know you like these, so I put a case of them in the fridge,” she said, handing it to me.
“You’ve got that right,” I said. She sure did. “What else did you do?”
“I had to rearrange the closets a little to hold my things. I hope that’s all right.”
We went into my bedroom. Her oversized chest of drawers was crowded into the corner along the wall. She’d scooched the bed over to make room for it. Another nightstand sat on the opposite side of the bed from mine, topped with a digital clock-radio and assorted bedroom items. I slid open the wardrobe to find it stuffed with dresses, blouses, skirts, coats, jackets, slacks and the rest. “Where’s my stuff?” I asked.
“Your everyday clothes I put in the closet. I moved your outdoors things to the closet in the other room. It wasn’t full, so I fitted most of it in there.”
I checked the bedroom closet. It was less than half the size of the wardrobe and held my suits, shirts, slacks and jackets only under duress. I dreaded to see what she’d done to my bathroom so put off that part of the inspection.
I went to check out the second bedroom, my office/den. I’d stowed guns, athletic gear, guy odds and ends in that closet. The gear was still there but all my outdoors and sports clothes were draped over and around it. A couple chairs and her dining room table filled out the space. Her typewriter and some papers and pens and stuff sat neatly on it. “I needed a place to do my work,” she said apologetically. I examined it more closely. She’d been laying out shooting schedules. She hadn’t disturbed the mess I’d left on my desk and filing cabinet.
I must have looked pained, because she sheepishly said, “Jake, if you don’t like it, I can fix it back like it was.”
“Anything else?” I asked.
“No, that’s about it. While you were gone I tidied the place up but I didn’t throw anything out.” I looked around. Except for my work area the house was neat as a Green Beret barracks. We went to the living room. The view of the Pacific Ocean out the picture window was as fine as ever. She’d fitted her bookcase and books in an empty slot against a wall. It wasn’t in the way and actually added a little class to the room. I had to admit she had good taste in furniture.
“Where’s the rest of your stuff?” I asked. “Downstairs in the rec room?”
“In storage. I didn’t want to crowd your place up—I really like the way you have it—but I needed a few things here.” She steered me to the dining room. “I paid your bills and kept track of everything while you were gone. I threw away all the junk mail, and the rest of your mail’s stacked on the dining room table. There’s one item I’m curious about. A messenger delivered it a few days ago. I signed for it. This one here.”
She picked an envelope off the top of a pile. It was a parchment-like material, stamped with a Kuwaiti official seal. Ripping it open would have been trouble so I went into the kitchen (totally shipshape), got a paring knife (some new utensils in the drawer) and slit it open. I fished out a folded note and a check for $60,000 drawn on a Saudi Arabian bank. The note, handwritten, read: “Dear Mr. Jake. Here is your share of the reward for the incident at the police station. With gratitude and thanks, Salah Melik Al Sabah.”
That got me curious. “Dana, did a bank statement come recently?”
“They’re all in that pile on the right. The last one came two days ago.”
I grabbed it and slit the envelope. I opened the statement to the deposits column. There was only one, a wire deposit a week ago. Whoa! I checked the account balance. Holy shit!
“Jake, you look surprised,” Dana said.
“I just came home to find out I have more money than I know what to do with.”
“Wow!” she said delightedly. “My toast came true! Do you remember? I said, Here’s to having more money than you know what to do with. May it be our fate.”
“Fate! Kismet! You better be careful about your toasts in the future. You have amazing powers.”
“Jake, I didn’t know if you’d arrive home hungry, but I got some steaks and things and a bottle of champagne to celebrate. I put charcoal in the grill and that’s ready to go. And I got something else for you. Come see.” We went back to the bedroom, and she turned the spread on the king size. “The sheets you had were kind of worn and ratty so I got these and put them on. They’re 800 thread count.” They had an exotic floral pattern. The Garden of Eden popped into my mind: Adam and Eve dwelt in a similar tropical lushness, no doubt. After eight Eve-less months I felt Adam-like stirrings down below. I reached out and ran my fingers over the surface. We’d need belaying lines to keep from sliding off onto the floor, but I was game. “I hope it’s okay,” she was saying, “my moving in and changing things around? If you want it’s just temporary until I find a place of my own. I’m fine with that, really. You don’t mind, do you?”
I put my hands around that firm, slender waist. I sat her down on the bed, then toppled her over and lay down beside her. “Whirlybird, I don’t mind it in the least.” I heard the taxicab pull up in the driveway and the car door open. The way Dana drove her Alfa I’m not surprised we beat him here. He rang the door bell. We ignored it. I’d told him to leave the luggage
on the steps if we didn’t answer. After a moment he pulled out and drove away. The bags could wait.
*
Somewhat later I went down and got my stuff. I stowed it in the bedroom, then went out to fire up the grill. Dana prepped some garlic bread and threw together a Caesar salad. The weather was a little brisk but not enough to keep us off the deck. Amid the aroma of thick, marbled steaks approaching sizzling perfection we stood at the railing, barefooted in our bathrobes, listening to the surf crash in the darkness down below, exchanging pecks, nuzzles and squeezes between sips of welcome-home champagne. Her silky welcome-home sheets hadn’t pitched us off the bed, and I felt confident we’d survive the return bout just fine—starting the minute we finished our dinner. Inspection revealed that she hadn’t disarranged my bathroom too drastically. The shower was still plenty big enough for two.
THE END
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Fonko Go Home (Book 7): After Jake bumps into an old flame from his adventures in Cambodia, he soon finds himself in Sarajevo during the Serbian Civil War. But this time, he has to get a civilian friend safely out of the warzone. Which is a whole different matter entirely...
The Jake Fonko Series: Books 4, 5 & 6 Page 61
