by AJ Stewart
“Let’s think on that. Best case we come up with some kind of paper. Worst case you just bust it out.”
“But quiet would be better,” said Hutton.
“Agreed,” said Fontaine. “So that leaves our other problem.”
“We’ve lost Dennison,” said Hutton.
Fontaine nodded.
“He’s probably halfway back to Baghdad,” said Manu. “But he doesn’t have the shipment. We could pick up the trail back at Camp Victory. Chances are he goes back there.”
“Maybe,” said Fontaine. “But this thing is getting too big. It’s more than just a few guns, don’t you think? I’m worried that Dennison might skip town.”
“Or outlive his usefulness,” said Gorecki.
Fontaine nodded. That was exactly his thinking. He turned to a knock at the door.
“Come in.”
The door opened and a young man walked in. It was the same kid who had previously delivered the note about Dennison’s location. He handed Fontaine an envelope and bowed and then stepped backward to the door, closing it.
Fontaine ripped open the note. He read it, and then read it again.
“So?” asked Hutton.
“It’s from our guardian angel. He requests a meeting.”
Chapter Seventeen
It was twilight when Fontaine and Hutton arrived at the guardhouse at Contingency Operating Base Basra. It wasn’t just a cabin with a lift gate. The entrance featured twenty-foot concrete blast walls in a zigzag pattern, like a Formula 1 racetrack, to dissuade anyone with the idea of driving a car bomb onto the base. It looked like the dead end to a forgotten freeway project. The private on duty checked their ID and checked the log and then made a call on his phone. He looked them over as he spoke, and Fontaine began to get the uneasy feeling that they were being set up. The private finished the call and directed Yusuf to park in a holding area to the side of the main road.
“The major will be here directly,” said private. “Just stay put.”
“That was the most loaded just stay put I’ve ever heard,” said Hutton. She had discarded her hijab in favor of a blue ball cap with FBI across the front.
They waited in place for about ten minutes before an army jeep came screaming at them from within the camp. The driver looked about twelve years old and he took a fast, tight turn and came up beside the Highlander. The passenger was older, maybe thirty or so. He wore the army combat uniform with the new digital camouflage. They both wore helmets.
“Fontaine?” he said, more demand than question.
“Yes, sir,” said Fontaine through the window.
“Follow us. Don’t get lost.”
Getting lost would be hard. The camp was spread out and open. It wasn’t like something Fontaine had seen on reruns of MASH. It was a vast space, a city in itself. The main area, Camp Bravo, was surrounded by more of the twenty-foot blast walls. It was like something from a science fiction film, a base on a distant world where the aliens weren’t happy about humans landing on their planet. They drove by row after row of the machinery of war: trucks, armored vehicles, small tanks, bulldozers. All parked in neat lines, disused and dusty and getting more so by the hour. They followed a wide road that ran around the perimeter of the base, like a ring road around an airport, past a small tent city, semiportable hard-shell tents with air-conditioning units on the ground by each tent. A mess hall with tables and chairs and neon lights in the window that were shut off and closed down. The area didn’t look abandoned—it looked like people had never been there. As if the vehicles and equipment and barracks were natural phenomena that the desert was as sure to take over as it did Babylon.
The convoy of two slowed as they drove along the outer edge of the camp, the high blast walls towering above them. Fontaine felt a flicker of memory of the alley and of Babar, but he pushed it away for another place and another time. He noted a speed limit sign. Then they came upon another section of the camp. It was a repeat of the first part they had passed through, with one major difference. There were soldiers everywhere. The vehicles had soldiers in them. The mess halls were serving food. The air-conditioners attached to the barracks were running hard. The lead jeep skidded to a stop on the gravel outside a long row of portable cabins. Yusuf stopped behind and looked at Fontaine.
“It’s okay,” he said. “You wait here. If you’re told to move somewhere else, do what you’re told.”
Yusuf nodded and Fontaine and Hutton got out. The older man stood waiting for them. The jeep pulled away. The man offered his hand to each of them.
“Major Rick Bradshaw,” he said.
“Major,” said Fontaine. “Jacques Fontaine.”
“Laura Hutton,” said Hutton.
“Yes, ma’am,” said Bradshaw. “Let’s talk in my office.”
The major led them down a walkway of rubber matting that ran between the rows of green cabins. Fontaine noted that there were several rows of cabins, all covered by a massive canvas awning, adding an extra layer of protection from the sun, and from other eyes in the sky.
“This was originally the main British base after Operation Iraqi Freedom,” said Bradshaw. “We took it over when they bugged out in ’07. Now it’s our turn to clear out.”
“Looks half empty already,” said Hutton.
“We’re down about thirty percent boots on the ground since peak. But the president has said we need to be out by Christmas, so . . .”
“This whole place? That’s fast,” she said.
Bradshaw smiled. “We’re the US Army, ma’am. We’ll be gone by just after Thanksgiving.”
They walked back out into the evening air. The heat was still clinging to every hard surface.
“You folks care for a soda?”
They both nodded and they stopped at a PX that was better stocked than most inner city supermarkets in the States. Bradshaw bought them all Cokes and then directed them to a portable cabin and ushered them inside.
The air-conditioning was blasting and the room was pleasant but bland. It was an office. Faux wood paneling, two desks, two chairs on casters. No visitors’ chairs, no conference table.
“We don’t get a lot of visitors,” said Bradshaw, as he lifted a pile of ring binders off an old brown sofa. Fontaine and Hutton sat and the major pulled up an office chair, spun it around on its casters and sat backward, arms folded on the backrest. Fontaine sipped his drink and waited for the dance to begin.
“So you’re an NCO?” said Bradshaw.
“Yes, sir,” said Fontaine.
“Adjudant?”
“Yes, sir.”
“What is that exactly? In US terms?”
“Roughly equivalent to a master sergeant.”
Bradshaw made a face like this meant something but could have been good or bad. He sipped his soda.
“Laporte says you got your rank fast.”
“Not for me to say, sir.”
“It is for him to say.”
“Yes, sir.”
“He says you could have become an officer.”
Fontaine shrugged. “Officers in the Legion are generally French nationals.”
“Generally, but not always,” said Bradshaw.
“Not always.”
“So why? Why stay an NCO?”
It was a loaded question. There was no good answer and they both knew it. Noncommissioned officers generally stayed NCOs for two reasons. One, they didn’t have what it took to pass officer school. Or two, they thought commissioned officers were the greatest waste of food in any army. Any answer was going to look like Fontaine was either a jealous loser or a kiss-ass. But he had a fallback position for such situations. The blunt truth.
“I wanted to do a job on the ground. I didn’t want to sit in an office and tell other people what to do.”
Bradshaw eyed him. Fontaine looked back and didn’t break contact. Not now, not ever.
“Is this a pissing contest?” asked Hutton. “Should I leave you guys to it?”
Major Bradshaw smil
ed. “Not at all, ma’am. Colonel Laporte told me Adjudant Fontaine was a straight shooter. Just wanted to see for myself.” Bradshaw leaned back to a desk and grabbed a manila folder.
“He also said he trusted Adjudant Fontaine more than any man he’d ever met. Period.” The major finished his soda and put the can on the desk.
“Your colonel and I met in Central America. In a hot and sticky jungle that neither of us was ever in, according to the records. We kept in touch. Back channels. You never know when things like that can come in useful.”
“Absolutely,” said Fontaine.
Bradshaw took a long deep breath. “Why the Legion? Why not Uncle Sam?”
“Long story.”
“Short version?”
“The chips didn’t fall that way.”
“But you were born in the homeland?”
“Legionnaires don’t discuss their origins.”
“Sure, I get that. But I don’t care. I want to know if I am about to share military intelligence with a foreign national. Miss Hutton here, she’s American. Born in Virginia, I checked. She shares this stuff, clearance or no clearance, she’s subject to national security laws. What’s your position?”
“Cincinnati, Ohio.”
Bradshaw nodded. “All right then.” He flipped open the folder and handed Fontaine a sheet of paper. It was a summary of Staff Sergeant Ox Dennison’s army jacket. His life history, according to the army. It was similar to Hutton’s version of the same thing. The photo was black and white and didn’t do Dennison any favors. He had small eyes that reminded Fontaine of a fox. He wasn’t looking at the camera. Not even remotely. He was looking off to his right as if something had drawn his attention away from the task at hand. Fontaine glanced across the information but didn’t read anything he hadn’t read before. He passed the document to Hutton.
“Staff Sergeant Dennison is no model for our army, that’s for sure,” Bradshaw said. “He’s a supply guy, quartermaster corps. Word is he’s good with the spreadsheets and good for keeping an eye on where all the bits and pieces are. Inventory control, I’m told. Seems he’s also good at using his skills to mask inventory loss. That’s how we think he got started. Small-time stuff, back stateside. But he’s really flourished here. Found his mojo. Our soldiers are the best fed, best clothed and best equipped fighting men and women in the history of the world. But we’re in the desert, and we’re the military. There are things you can’t get, and things the regulations won’t let you have. Staff Sergeant Dennison got very good at finding those things.”
“As you say, sounds like a small-time hustler,” said Fontaine. “Every army has them. Hell, every unit worth its salt has one. How does that get us to here?”
“Let’s say it’s kind of like a kid in minor league baseball. Maybe he’s good enough. Not great, but good enough. And maybe a scout sees him. Or maybe not. If not, he stays where he is. But if they do, and right at that time the team needs a particular skill—say a tight shortstop or an outfielder with a strong arm—then the kid might get picked up. He might find himself in the lofty heights of the major leagues. He might be out of his depth in every other way, but for this particular skill, for at least a time, he might be invaluable.”
“Okay, I can see that,” said Hutton. “But what’s this skill he’s bringing to the table? There’s nothing outstanding in his jacket,” she said holding up the document.
“It’s no exact analogy,” said Bradshaw. “Let’s call it a lot of small skills. And let’s also call it right time and right place. He’s okay with walking on the wrong side of the regulations, and for that matter, the law. He’s connected in-country. And he’s invisible.”
“Invisible?” asked Fontaine.
“Sure. Hiding in plain sight. There’s nothing more invisible than a United States soldier. Not right now. And he’s in the part of the army that moves stuff. A lot of stuff. Especially now. He can move around, he can get access to vehicles. He’s got enough rank to get things done, but not enough to know anything that might cause the brass to want better oversight. Nothing classified, for example.”
“So you’re saying he’s a tool,” said Fontaine. “Someone else is in control?”
Bradshaw nodded. “You got it. Someone, or someones. That’s where Colonel Laporte and I came back into contact. We were both looking into cases of arms being acquired from our respective military’s stockpiles and sold to bad guys. In this case, Al Qaeda. I was coming at it through Afghanistan, he was coming at it through North Africa.”
“And you ended up in Iraq?”
“Sort of. We crossed paths in Afghanistan. French troops are on the ground there, along with our boys.” Bradshaw looked at Hutton. “And girls.”
“You can cut the PC crap, Major. I know what you mean.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“And for future reference, girls is probably not the appropriate choice regardless.”
“Roger that, ma’am. So I ran into Colonel Laporte. I was tracking some unusual chatter in Afghanistan and Iran, which led me to Baghdad. The drawdown was the perfect cover.”
“You lose a lot of stuff in the army, Major?” asked Hutton.
“No, ma’am. Our systems and procedures are top-notch. It’s amazing how little stuff goes missing actually. But we’re talking such large numbers. We had over five hundred bases in Iraq at peak deployment. Billions in infrastructure. We expect to leave hundreds of millions of dollars’ worth of equipment and supplies here.”
“You’re leaving hundreds of millions of dollars’ worth of stuff here?”
“Yes, ma’am. Stuff our government wants to give to the Iraqis to aid their take-back, plus a lot of stuff that would cost more than fair market value to ship home. It’s cheaper to leave it. So there’s a growing black market in ex-military equipment. And that market will grow as we get closer to full withdrawal.”
“So you switched your focus to Iraq because of it?”
“No, ma’am. The bad guys switched their focus. We followed them. We believe that a lot of the stuff here is finding its way through Iran and into Afghanistan.”
“To be used against our own people,” said Fontaine.
“Exactly. Then it all went to hell.”
“How?”
“I tracked a shipment that was making its way from Baghdad and came south here to Basra. It then went on into Iran. We kept an eye on it for a while, but we lost it somewhere around the city of Isfahan.”
“Which is where?” asked Hutton.
“More or less a straight shot between Basra in Iraq and Kandahar in Afghanistan,” Fontaine said.
Bradshaw nodded.
“But from Baghdad it would be a straighter shot,” added Fontaine.
“True,” said Bradshaw. “But we think they want to stay away from US-controlled border points, and we still have more boots up there. So it’s either north or south. And north is Kurdish territory. And no one messes with those guys on their own turf. So south is better.”
“Possible. But how did it go to hell?”
“I traced the shipment backward. It wasn’t easy, but I found the origin.”
“Which was?”
“Ambérieu-en-Bugey, France.”
Hutton shot a look at Fontaine. “France? What is that place? What’s there?”
“It’s an air base,” said Fontaine. “Near Lyon.”
“The French are sending arms to Afghanistan? How does that make any sense?” Hutton asked.
“It doesn’t,” said Fontaine.
“Well, here’s the really funky bit. Just as I find this out, I get shut down.”
“Shut down?”
“Ordered out of Camp Victory and down here to finalize the drawdown. I got told to close up shop.”
Fontaine sat back into the sofa. Thought for a moment. Then looked at the major.
“But you didn’t close up shop, did you?”
Bradshaw smiled. “Let’s just say my CO is a very suspicious guy. He told me to keep going on the QT
. And that was my problem. I didn’t know who I could trust anymore. Someone above was watching me. Maybe a little above, maybe a lot above. But they were there. So I called a friend.”
“Colonel Laporte. And he sent me here.”
“He figured to keep things in close. His boys.”
Fontaine finished his Coke and looked at the can. Part of the logo was called the ribbon device. The Coca Cola Company had trademarked it. It was a swooping line that ran up the side of the can, thick at one end, thin in middle and then thicker at the other end. He had no idea what it was supposed to represent. Surely something. Surely lots of highly paid executives had booked meeting rooms and ordered lunches and spit-balled and brainstormed and tossed ideas around. And they had come up with the ribbon device. It looked like a river, sweeping and organic. Thick, thin, thick. Wide, narrow, wide.
Important, not important, important again.
“So why is Dennison here in Basra?” Fontaine asked. “He’s way off reservation.”
“I agree. He is. And he doesn’t look happy about it. But I think it’s the same thing. The southern crossing into Iran is better.”
“But we’re looking at something coming from Iran, not into,” said Hutton.
“Yeah, I have to admit, that bit has me confused,” said Bradshaw. “I’d sure like to know what he has.”
Hutton leaned back in the sofa like she was relieving the stress in her lower back, and she glanced at Fontaine. He knew what she was asking. Do we tell him we have the container? Fontaine wasn’t ready for that yet. He didn’t know where the leaks were either.
“Can’t you search it, if it’s on base?” Fontaine asked.
“It’s not on base. He’s hidden it somewhere.”
“So where is he?”
“He’s here. Probably in the mess hall. But he didn’t arrive back on base in a truck.”
“So he could move it anytime. He could leave tonight?” asked Hutton.
“He’s not going anywhere. You don’t drive the road to Baghdad at night. Especially alone. Especially in an unarmed transport. He’ll wait for daylight.”
