The Anvil of the Craftsman (Jon's Trilogy)

by Dale Amidei

  Jon Anthony saw that five of the Land Rovers were still intact. The sixth had lost a section of fuel tank to a fist-sized chunk of the Volga, and fire crews were covering the area with foam. Schuster had detailed him and Carol to escort team members back to the Al Rasheed, and the majority of the State Department types as well as most of the contractors thought that it was a grand idea.

  Schuster had asked the operators in two Blackwater vehicles to make sure that they got there. Anthony opened the door to a Land Rover for Carol then climbed into the driver’s seat. They had the vehicle to themselves.

  “God, Jon, it’s just awful. I’ve never seen anything like this,” she said, her voice still shaking.

  “Me either. I just don’t get it.”

  They backed out and waited for the Blackwater Humvees to form up fore and aft. Carol looked at him from the passenger’s seat.

  “Thank you for what you did back there. You put yourself between me and the door. I just realized that.”

  Anthony shrugged as they started to move. “It was just a reaction. We needed to get down.”

  “It was noble, Jon. You put yourself in harm’s way for me. I would have just stood there with my mouth open.”

  Anthony felt embarrassed. “Well, you’re welcome Carol. Besides, you’re a senior team member. Tom wouldn’t like it if I let you get hurt.”

  Carol almost laughed at that. “Yes, well, keep that in mind, please. I like the way you think so far!”

  They drove back through the checkpoint, now being manned by Air Police who had swarmed from the military compounds nearby. Their Land Rovers and the two Humvees headed back toward the city.

  Al-Khafji was furious. He was well away from the scene observing through a small telescope, at least as much as he could view through the shimmer of the daytime heat mirage. From what he could see, and had heard, the amount of return fire had been incredible. All members of the blocking force that had gone in before the vehicle were dead, and only his team of six remained, here behind a berm wall off the Airport Road. The explosion had been delicious to watch but occurred too far out to cause the damage he had hoped for. Rashid and the others had failed.

  The Saudi rose from the telescope eyepiece and looked back toward the city. Five other smoke columns had risen. Sirens could be heard everywhere, and the airport was becoming a sea of flashing lights. The other martyrs had gone to their reward as was their fervent wish. Across the city, they had struck the Shi'a, in the markets and their other business places, to bring fear and make them realize that their Sunni masters were still here.

  Al-Khafji lowered his head again and watched the cleanup, trying to glean as much damage assessment as he could. He saw the Americans forming up at their vehicles now, for first aid? No, he realized, it was to leave. He tried to think of a way to salvage the failure of the attack, the news of which Raad would not be pleased to hear. A plan began to form in his mind. Little spare time existed to get in position.

  He ordered his men into their van. “Hurry, hurry! Back to the vehicle with you! I will drive.”

  They got moving before the Land Rovers did, al-Khafji saw. They would move faster and over less-traveled streets. They could get there in time, and perhaps something good would come out of this day.

  From the lead Land Rover, Anthony could see that the Blackwater guys ahead were alert as they set out on Airport Road. They were moving them fast across what had once been the deadliest stretch of road in the world. The convoy slowed only when more congested traffic forced their hand as they turned in to the more heavily traveled Baghdad thoroughfares.

  Only twice since his arrival had Anthony been along this road, and he admitted to himself that it had never been a scenic route. The litter of war remained beside the roadway. Army bomb-disposal teams had pushed most of it far enough away from the driving lanes that it could no longer effectively conceal an IED; nonetheless, the wreckage was slow to disappear. People in Baghdad had larger concerns than the aesthetics of urban renewal.

  The SUVs transitioned again from Route Irish to Route Aeros and continued toward the Green Zone checkpoint; its arched gate would signal that they were home. On this road one consistent hang-up was a traffic circle; an abortion of civil engineering annoying enough to navigate in a polite society, it could be much worse than that in Baghdad. Anthony saw brake lights on the lead Humvee and slowed their vehicle.

  Crossways in one of the lanes, a car sat smoking with another piled into the rear of it. From a distance it looked to be a simple wreck. When they pulled closer, however, the bullet holes came into view.

  Anthony heard the same sound of gunfire that had started at the hangar, much closer this time. He grabbed for Carol, who had frozen, and forced her head down to the console. At the same time he tried to get himself under the windows and behind as much metal as the Brit SUV could provide.

  Glass was raining on them now as hammer-blows sounded on the exterior of the Land Rover. He heard impacts on the other vehicles in the column as well and other, louder sounds: the return fire from Blackwater.

  Six weapons were sweeping them, the contract operators in the lead vehicle saw. One was blocking the way in front, two on each flank and one from what sounded like the six o’clock position.

  The operative riding shotgun in the lead vehicle raised his Barrett carbine, which unlike the standard 5.56mm NATO M4 took the heavier 6.8mm SPC round, and fired right through the driver’s side windscreen. It was a surprise to al-Khafji’s team leader, who sprawled backward as the two men in the Humvee then redirected their fire out the open side windows of the big vehicle.

  The gunners at each side of the ambush point had too much ground to cover and were trying to rake the entire convoy of seven vehicles. After several long seconds, each reached the end of their thirty-round magazine, forced to dig for another from their Russian-style chest harnesses. The more disciplined, better-controlled fire from the contracted Special Forces veterans indexed the attackers then, taking them down. They died one after the other.

  The man at the rear, the last man standing, turned to run and collected two rounds in the back from both operatives who exited from the rear Humvee. Unlike the Blackwater specialists, the AQI was not wearing the best heavy Kevlar and ceramic-plate-armored vest that money could buy. The last man was dead on his feet, flopping forward heavily to slide another meter on the asphalt.

  “Front element clear! Starboard front clear!” the lead passenger-side operative sounded. The other three, all the way around the line of vehicles, repeated his call. None of the Blackwater ops had sustained so much as a scratch. Climbing to the top of his Humvee, the lead driver changed magazines and shouldered his Barrett to watch the perimeter as the rest of them surveyed the vehicles for casualties.

  Jon Anthony raised his head as he heard the calls go around the convoy. It was over. He grabbed Carol’s shoulders.

  “Are you OK? Are you hit?”

  “I’m OK, I’m OK. Oh, God,” Carol said, shaking. The Blackwater specialist from the front vehicle stuck his head in the Land Rover, seeing no blood.

  “Everyone OK?” he grunted.

  Anthony nodded. “Yeah, good, go.” The face disappeared, and the man moved backward to the next vehicle.

  Anthony brought Carol out the driver’s side. The Land Rovers had a lot of broken glass, and their people had some cuts as a result, but only three suffered from survivable gunshot wounds. The Blackwater people started stanching and bandaging them to manage the blood flow, binding compresses in place with self-adhesive gauze tape. They handed the rest of their first aid supplies out quickly, calmed everyone the best they could and identified the ones still able to drive.

  Two ops passed Anthony and Carol at a trot, heading back to their vehicle. “Back inside, guys. Nonstop at this point!” one barked.

  Carol didn’t have to be told, scampering back into the SUV even less gracefully and faster than she had exited. Anthony was right behind her and slapped the still-running vehicle back into
gear as he saw the brake lights blaze then go out on the Humvee in front of them.

  They made the remainder of the trip in record time, horns blaring and lights flashing until they were at and through the checkpoint and behind the safety of the Green Zone fortifications. The vehicles with wounded did not have to be directed to Ibn Sina Hospital. Its location had been the first facility in the Zone that they all memorized.

  Anthony thought about following them but turned his abused Land Rover toward the Al Rasheed. In the ER they could do nothing except get in the way, and he needed to make a phone call to Bernard Schuster. He looked at Carol. She was pale and trembling.

  “Bad day.” They were all the words he could find.

  “Yeah,” she agreed, and then the tears started.

  Al-Khafji felt vindicated in his decision to stand off. He was the sole survivor of the entire team that had left the garage for the airport this morning. His plans would go better, he thought, if material more intelligent was made available to him. For the next operation, he would concentrate on recruiting a higher-quality staff.

  As it was, he thought as he drove the van away from the hill overlooking the traffic circle, the day had been a success. He had renewed his reputation as a survivor. His operations had gone off roughly as planned, and there was no one to offer any critique of his leadership style. Those who would have been his harshest critics had not lived to see midday prayers.

  Chapter 12: Bad Publicity

  Sunday’s working hours were almost over. A knock came on General McAllen’s door. A subdued Kameldorn entered following his acknowledgment. The officer’s dejection was obvious to the older man. After his long weekend at work, Kameldorn was back in his digital BDUs, shaved and cleaned up as always when he appeared in McAllen’s office.

  “Fucked up mess of a day, Major,” the General observed.

  “Yes, sir.” Kameldorn saluted, holding a manila folder in his left hand. “I present my report, sir.”

  McAllen returned the salute then reached out for the documents offered to him. “Have a seat, Major. Coffee?”

  “Thank you, sir. Not today.”

  Donning his reading glasses, McAllen flipped through the activity summary, which included a snapshot of the cooling Abu Bakir Raad. “Best picture ever took of that son of a bitch. You did a good job there, son.”

  “Yes, sir. Thank you, sir.”

  The General scanned the précis of the previous three days' events for a few moments, knowing already most of what was to be found there. Kameldorn and the rest of his MI staff had been outpaced, forced to chase events that were too far in front of them. McAllen had seen it happen before, more than once. He knew what the experience could do to professionals. He tossed the folder forward to his desk.

  “I suppose you think you’re in for a good old-fashioned ass-chewing, Major.” McAllen removed his readers and folded them, setting them atop Kameldorn’s report.

  “General’s privilege, sir.”

  McAllen sat back, waving his hand. “It ain’t gonna happen, son. The information you turned up, and some more we knocked loose from the mechanic you bagged, gave us enough of a warning that my analysts are telling me that four of the six vehicles didn’t get as close to their intended targets as they wanted to. Fifty killed? Try three, four hundred if we hadn’t tightened security. And in an anomaly we got all the evidence we need to pin it on al-Khafji because of what you overheard at the garage.”

  McAllen tapped his finger on the manila folder. “We got us a dead Iranian with fake Iraqi papers who we don’t ever have to, and therefore won’t, talk about again. And you got some time off after spending three months straight chasing that piece of shit. You did a hell of a job, and I’m going to need you to keep doing it. So get over your little episode, get some rest, and stay by your phones. And accept the parts of the job that none of us like to watch happen.”

  Kameldorn straightened and cleared his throat. “Yes, sir. Point taken. Begging the General’s pardon, I may be a little tired.”

  “Then you get a little rest, Major. Afterward, we’ll find something else to keep you occupied. You got my promise on that. Keep those phones on. Get on back to your rack.”

  Kameldorn stood, straightening to salute again. McAllen saluted just as well, liking better the light that had crept back into his operative’s eyes.

  “Dismissed, Major.”

  “Yes, sir,” Kameldorn said as he turned and exited. He looked to McAllen like a soldier again.

  McAllen swiveled in his chair and looked out his second-floor window at the darkening view. A lot of small victories and losses occurred daily here, and everywhere, he imagined, though in better locales there might not be as much at stake. What happened, happened; then as much mattered in how it was handled as in what had taken place. He sensed that today had been a significant one. He would have to wait to see where it would lead all of them.

  While McAllen mused, Colby was the last one in the team’s offices at the Embassy. Two of his own people remained for a precautionary overnight stay at Ibn Sina. None of the wounds had been life-threatening. He worried about losing more people to the attrition that was part of operating overseas. Some could not handle the thought and bailed before the plane left the ground. Some found that the experience was something other than what they had expected and lost their ability to function once they arrived. And some, Colby thought in frustration, just did not react well to incoming fire from an AK-47.

  He hadn’t received a resignation yet, but one wouldn’t surprise him. The Sheik had attended his dead and wounded before any other consideration and sent some of his entourage back to Anbar to deliver the unfortunates to their families. It was late afternoon before Colby and Schuster sat with the man and began to build the foundation of the "Anbar initiative" as they had started calling it internally. Al-Dulaimi was a social and political adept and a good man, Colby thought. The Sheik's interest, character and intellect all impressed Colby; the man was an equal, their motives nearly identical.

  Al-Dulaimi’s men had dined on the leftover luncheon food as an early dinner by the time that he, Schuster and Colby had finished their business. They now had a conduit into Al Anbar Province. With the added impetus and assistance of the Sheik, Schuster’s envoys would provide the structure that they would expand into a full-press diplomatic effort aimed at incorporating tribal leadership into the forming coalition government.

  Despite the events of the day, it had been a success, Colby told himself. He did not know how many of his team shared that sentiment, but he was the boss, and it was his call to make. With that thought as his daily summary, he gathered the items that would accompany him back to the Al Rasheed. He wondered if his perspective was too wedded to mission focus and too forward-looking to see how far off the mark he might be.

  The events of that Sunday in Baghdad had some mention in the morning shows but took an extra day to make it into the news cycle in Washington. Early on Monday the spectacle of six simultaneous car bombings across the ravaged city was seized by every party with a position on the war in Iraq. That included nearly everybody inside the Beltway and certainly everyone in the news media.

  The involvement of Blackwater USA—second only to Halliburton as the mainstream media’s favorite whipping boy—in another shooting incident whetted the appetite of the press. They universally noted that eighteen "civilians" had been killed though remained uninterested in their affiliations or activities at the time. Twelve had comprised the forward element for Rashid's last drive; the other six had been shooters at the traffic circle. That one of those had been found by authorities with rounds in his back, unarmed—his weapon looted with all the others by the time police had arrived—sent the Washington bureaus into a feeding frenzy.

  It was noon when State Department officials began to field questions about the security contract with Blackwater. Less than twenty minutes later reporters started prying into the reasons that State might have for entertaining Iraqi citizens in a hangar a
t Baghdad International. Speculation on the nature of events and the integrity of those involved was rampant, driven by the desired narratives and political agenda of the reporting entities.

  By midafternoon, the upper echelons at State started feeling the heat. By the close of business a consensus had formed: put a hold on whatever was happening over there until the blood was no longer in the water, and the reporters had moved on to savage their next victims.

  The desire to escape extended scrutiny in DC was proportional to the number of irons that one had in the fire, and State had many in the bonfire of Iraq. The word was then given: until further notice all current initiatives were to be placed on hold pending review of not only current procedures but also the nature of third party security contracts. Washington had just hit the brakes.

  The diplomatic cable from DC announcing the operational pause arrived at 1:00 AM Tuesday, Baghdad time, routed "No Immediate Action Required" to the night staff. NIAR was a good thing; it meant they did not have the unenviable task of awakening any senior staff, who enjoyed that as little as would anyone else. Instead, it went into the morning stack for the Ambassador with the other overnight business. No shortage of that ever occurred, conforming to an old State Department adage that someone, somewhere, was always up to something.

  It occurred to Colby that he was never running late in Baghdad. The Al Rasheed was just up the road, and even when no one was available to offer a ride, there was usually a shuttle running back and forth. The Green Zone was set up well for transport. He liked being punctual, and vowed to make some time-management changes when he got back to DC.

  In his office before eight in the morning, he was looking forward to reviewing the daily report that Schuster would without fail have waiting for him. He had time to ditch his suit jacket and began loosening his top shirt button when his IP phone chimed.