by Dale Amidei
They made good time afterward, burning up highway to the checkpoints on approach to the Al Taqaddum airbase, "TQ" to the military. They waited through a delay there, as a convoy passed through toward the base. Once past the slowdown, they again saw good progress on the stretch of road that took them to the north shore of Lake Habbaniyah, a body fed by a canal from the Euphrates. Anthony noticed that Kameldorn seemed tense again, here on the doorstep of Ramadi, the capital of Al Anbar Province and the heart of the Islamist insurgency.
Radio conversation between Kameldorn and Blackwater at that point confirmed the route southward, parallel to the eastern shore of Hawr al-Habbaniyah, the lake’s name in Arabic. Overhead, helicopters were visible now, Chinooks and the deadly Apaches, coming in to deliver supplies and personnel as well as refuel and rearm.
Camp Saif, which meant Sword, delineated on a rise of ground three klicks south of the highway, on a well-maintained road paved by a National Guard engineering battalion that had rotated through a year previously. The M113A3 armored personnel carriers and Bradley fighting vehicles of the First Battalion, Ninth Infantry Brigade of the Second Infantry Division were parked in rows facing the perimeter, with the pads and Quonset shelters for the aircraft in the middle. Ringing them to the perimeter were tents and facilities for the nearly eight hundred infantrymen who served here. The exception was the 2500-foot runway that had been leveled lakeside.
Their convoy slowed well before the entrance, Kameldorn again listening to Blackwater identify and authenticate to the sentries before they slowly proceeded in. On cue, Kameldorn lowered all the windows, just as the Blackwater Suburban ahead had. Armed soldiers gave them the once-over, looking in to verify the makeup of the passengers and running pole-mounted mirrors under the vehicle to check there as well. With all the vehicles cleared, sentries waved them inside.
Along the way other sentries directed them to a spot well inside the camp. They arrived to find a large, walled tent of their own, sandbags stacked around the exterior. For this day at least, they were finished traveling.
The Blackwater Suburbans swung in and backed up to the tent, and Kameldorn followed, but Schuster’s Iraqi interpreter felt more comfortable parking nose-in. Disembarking, the group saw an officer approaching, shoulder holster hanging his M9 and extra magazines over his armored vest. He was a dark-skinned and muscular American soldier of African descent, in his late thirties, and taller than Kameldorn, Anthony observed. The officer’s head bore an incidental amount of closely cut hair, and he cradled his MICH helmet under one massive arm. He strode directly up to Colby as he slid out of the Land Rover.
“Mr. Colby, welcome to Camp Saif. I am Lieutenant Colonel Rodney Harris, Battalion Commander, sir. It’s a pleasure to have you bunk with us tonight.”
Colby nodded, pumping his outstretched hand. “Thank you, sir. We appreciate the trouble that you’ve gone to. We will be on our way and out of yours first thing in the morning, I promise.”
Harris grinned. “No trouble, sir. General McAllen’s done plenty for us; it’s not often that we have an opportunity to return the favor.”
The Colonel caught sight of Kameldorn rounding the front of the Land Rover, zippered case that he had retrieved from under his seat slung casually over his shoulder. “Major Kameldorn, I presume. It’s an honor to meet you, sir.”
Kameldorn, too, shook his hand enthusiastically. “The honor’s mine, sir. Smart looking camp you have here.”
“We do our best, Major.”
Anthony did his best to stay out of the way, but Colby introduced him and Schuster as well. The Blackwater teams weren’t straying too far from their vehicles. Harris followed Schuster’s eyes to the women in the second Land Rover.
“Mr. Schuster, I’ll detail a set of female MPs to show the ladies to their camp facilities. They’re a distance away, a mite too far to find on their own, I think. We have another set of bunks for them down there.”
Relieved that it was not going to be a coed tent, Schuster nodded. “That’s greatly appreciated, sir.”
Harris nodded. “Now, gentlemen, if you’ll excuse me, I need to attend to a few things. Chow is getting fired up in the mess, and anyone can direct you when you’re ready. Have a pleasant evening, and do let someone know if we can do anything for you.”
Colby smiled. “Thank you again, sir.”
Kameldorn turned to Anthony as Harris stalked away, eyes already scanning the area for his next objective. “One hell of a man,” the Major said.
“It’s amazing that there are any insurgents left. I wanted to run, and I’m on his side,” Anthony agreed.
Kameldorn snorted. “Now you know why they lay off with a roadside bomb or throw a mortar in once in a while.”
“Mortars?” Anthony looked at the fabric roof of their tent. Kameldorn caught his eyes flick.
“Don’t worry, Doc. Your luck would have to be pretty bad to catch an airburst on the z-axis tonight. Then again, I don’t think the Blackwater guys are going to be competing for room inside. Dollar gets you ten they sleep in the trucks.”
“No bet. Doesn’t sound like a bad idea actually.”
Anthony saw Kameldorn smile and smack his palm on their SUV’s hood. “Get your own, kid. This one’s mine.”
Those of the men who would be sleeping inside had claimed their bunks and brought in their bags. Chow with the infantry had been adequate, Kameldorn thought, not being there to entertain you but to keep you operating. Colby, he saw, had some support docs from Schuster’s personality profiles and was reading. On his own rack, Anthony was absorbed in literature also, with a Qur’an and a few other volumes he had brought.
Kameldorn claimed the bunk closest to the door just to have somewhere to sit. He was next to Schuster, who looked to be merely taking the time to relax, largely staring at the ceiling. Straddling the mattress, Kameldorn set his case down at the foot.
“Bernie,” he greeted Schuster. “Army chow’s agreeing with you?”
Schuster smirked. “I never say anything bad about free food.”
Kameldorn nodded. “That’s good etiquette here.”
Unzipping the nylon case, he brought out the stubby M4A1 and extracted the magazine, drawing back the charging handle to make sure of an empty chamber. All the while he kept the muzzle pointed at the sandbagged wall. Despite the unloaded condition he locked the safety and then slipped the ring back that secured the handguards in place, laying the halves side by side in front of him.
The rear receiver pin popped next, then the charging handle and bolt carrier group as the upper receiver swiveled free. He looked everything over with an experienced eye, peered down the short length of the bore, and felt satisfied. Flipping the switch on and off, he checked the battery on the Aimpoint sight though it had been changed before leaving Baghdad. He examined the gas piston and port for dust or sand that might have crept in and found nothing.
Reassembly was in reverse order, under Schuster’s curious gaze, complete with a few trips back and forth for the bolt as the final function check. It was clean and smooth and as ready as he could make it, he decided. He glanced over at Schuster.
“Had a chance to fire the M4?”
Schuster shook his head. “Never fired a gun in my life.”
Kameldorn pointed the muzzle skyward and flipped his weapon around so Schuster could see the controls, pointing them out as he spoke.
“I built this one myself. Gas piston system—didn't want to mess with a spiral gas tube for a ten-and-a-half-inch barrel. The usual controls: easy, really. The bolt release lets the bolt forward to chamber a round. A dial switch here for the red dot sight. The selector is under your thumb. ‘S’ is safe. ‘1’ is for semiautomatic, which lets the thing go ‘Bang’ when you press the trigger. ‘F’ is for fully automatic, which will have the thing go ‘Bang Bang Bang Bang Bang’ until you let off the trigger or run out of ammo. You’re not there yet, so stay away from ‘F’.”
“Don’t worry. It’s all above my pay grade.”
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Kameldorn smiled, showing Schuster the fully loaded thirty-round magazine, which he clicked into place. “Drawing back on the charging handle and releasing chambers a round if the bolt hasn’t locked back on an empty one. At that point, you are ready to go. Generally, we run chamber empty unless someone has excited us.”
Schuster gestured toward the bulge of the 9mm tucked under his shirt inside his waistband. “Not cleaning that one?”
Kameldorn shook his head. “No dust or sand got at it today, otherwise I would.”
“It’s a different world you guys live in.”
“That, sir, is a fact.” Kameldorn rose and put on his sport coat, hanging the sling of the M4A1 over his shoulder and stepping back outside.
He stood there for a moment, clipping his military identification on his lapel and listening to the noise of the mechanized infantry battalion around him. He watched a pair of Apaches land in the middle of the camp as he began to walk and saw several APCs coming back in from perimeter patrol; he recalled many other times in such camps. A commonality of structure and discipline existed in all military installations, but also individualization as well. That made each unit and each camp a unique entity. One feature of this place intrigued him. He headed that way to confirm his hypothesis, toward the lakeshore that rippled in the dusk, two klicks or so distant past the lengthening shadows.
The evening was cooling fast from the 80° high that day. Damn it, he thought—it was 25 degrees Celsius. The desert heat radiated up through the clear sky, unimpeded by clouds or humidity, and was lost quickly once the sun was down. He strolled toward the lake … and the runway. As he had expected, a pair of MPs intercepted him long before he got there, rolling to a stop in their patrol vehicle.
“Can we direct you, sir?” one asked, a young noncom, from behind the wheel of the doorless Humvee.
Kameldorn smiled. “The hangar with the van, Corporal, if you could please.”
The MP dismounted for a closer look at his ID. His right hand rested on his belt near his M9 Beretta, which looked to be older than he was. “I’ll need to request authorization, sir.”
Kameldorn nodded. “Try Lieutenant Colonel Harris, Corporal, USSOCOM Delta Bravo request. General McAllen can confirm if he needs it.”
A brief radio query followed and a short wait. After a second exchange, the two MPs traded looks. “May we give you a lift to the hangar, sir, and a ride back to your quarters afterward?”
Kameldorn nodded, climbing into the back of the Humvee. You could never have too many friends in Iraq, but this was more than a social call or networking. It was contingency planning.
Lights-out sounded at 2200, and everyone was ready. Read out and talked out, they settled into their bunks or, in the case of Kameldorn and the Blackwater security force, into their trucks. The operators could relax here inside the perimeter with the Second ID. Sleep, for some of the others, would not come easily.
Jon Anthony lay awake for a time, staring up at the dark canvas roof of the tent. He thought about Aprils past in Sheffield, studying with friends, preparing final exams well ahead of time for the classes that he taught. He wondered who taught those classes now and how similar their experiences would be to his. He thought about Christie Wilt, and he reminded himself to e-mail Dr. Mills to let the man know that he was doing OK when he again had a chance. Drifting off to the sounds of distant helicopters, he fell asleep. He dreamed about summers in Indiana, and for a time he walked again on the cool grass of the backyard with his parents.
Tom Colby was exhausted and wished that he could say good night to his girls though it was only two in the afternoon back home and they were not yet out of school. He spent a few minutes making a mental list of crucial talking points to mention with Sheik al-Dulaimi the next morning. Colby laid out the agenda for the eventual tribal conference that he hoped to arrange after this trip. He faded into a surreal world where there was water, hundreds of gallons of water, coming through the walls and ceiling of the cube farm back in the Truman Building. He could not reach the Facilities Department on the telephone, and he was helpless to stop what was happening. More than once he awoke only to return to a variation of the same dream.
Bernard Schuster stared at the canvas above longer than Jon Anthony did from a few yards to the right. Schuster wondered just where his career with State was going and if he was cut out for overseas service. He thought about more ways to help Tom Colby and tried to calculate the endless possibilities for disaster that his boss seemed determined to overlook. At nearly midnight, Schuster finally made himself stop checking the luminous hands of his Rolex, falling into a heavy slumber ten minutes later. He would barely remember it, but he dreamed of the long-lost car he had driven in high school, somehow miraculously preserved in a shed and covered with a dusty tarpaulin on Pop’s vacation property in Maine.
Major Matt Kameldorn was comforted by the muted sounds of the night in Camp Saif. Curled up on the Land Rover's back seats, he felt safe as he always did when guarded by his fellow service members. He fell asleep inside twenty minutes, having set his mental alarm early enough to allow a run and a shower before the rest of the team would get going in the morning. He dreamed about helicopters as they moved overhead, sitting in them and waiting. They changed to airborne-deployment planes where he also sat and waited. Listening to the engines drone, he wondered when the order would come to "stand in the door" again. He never jumped in this dream. The lights in the cabin never changed color. The jumpmaster was always silent. It seemed so wrong.
Colby was still sleeping when sunrise reveille sounded across Camp Saif. It took a moment for his mind to orient itself, aided by the sound of a helicopter in the distance. He craned his head toward the entrance when Kameldorn came in, covered in sweat from his run and looking vaguely amused by the slowly wakening State Department employees. He held the personal kit that he had just retrieved from the Land Rover.
“Good morning, gentlemen,” he said. “The showers are on the far side of the mess, in case you missed them last night. Breakfast will go on for a few hours, but don’t miss the good stuff.”
As Kameldorn disappeared, Colby blinked a few more times. He heard the morning sounds of the others also coming back to life. The bunk had been firm but not cruel, and his back was suffering more from sitting in an SUV for much of the previous afternoon, he thought.
He stood, stretching, slipping into the sandals that he had left beside his bed. “Good morning, guys. Let’s have wheels rolling at eight. Anyone left behind will be automatically enlisted.”
General chuckling erupted. The accommodations of the Al Rasheed had never seemed better than they did now.
His people made good use of the morning, availing themselves of the base facilities before breakfast at the mess. There they found Marilyn and Katie in the chow line ahead of them. Colby felt chastened for his chauvinistic assumption that it would be otherwise. As expected, Kameldorn was well ahead of schedule, conferring with the Blackwater guys to double-check their route for today just as he did before leaving Baghdad. Colby saw that Kameldorn and the contractors were on the same page and of the same mindset and had not noticed any friction between them. They were all professionals, he decided, and professionals typically held to an established set of operating principles.
Colby threw his bag back on the cargo deck of the lead Land Rover and moved out of the way for Anthony and Schuster. His own world, the Special Assistant thought, wasn’t any different. The protocols of diplomacy were uniform. Contact, communication, conference and accord were the basic framework, with each stage having its own etiquette. One led to the next through an established set of rules, so interaction was predictable and the chance of an unpleasant experience reduced. It was how the civilized world conducted international relations.
He would spend the day with al-Dulaimi, tour the man's locale, and, if he were lucky, have the Sheik make some introductions that he could build on with his next visit. In time the information accumulating in Schuster’s
database would put them in a good position, he hoped, to generate a regional conference. Genuine progress could follow in suppressing the insurgency and coalescing tribal governments into the forming parliamentary structure. Colby shook his head. He was thinking too far ahead, he cautioned himself. This was a preliminary meet. It would be better if he lowered his expectations.
The Blackwater types were loading into their big Chevys when Harris had his executive officer, a Major, stop by. He wished them well on the last part of their journey and passed along the Colonel’s regrets about not being able to see them off. Colby took no offense, of course. As it was, they had made enough of an imposition. He was doing his best to get his entourage out of the way as he had promised during the previous afternoon.
Kameldorn waited for the word. Colby glanced around; everyone else was already in place.
“Well, Matt, here we go. Everyone’s ready?”
Kameldorn nodded. “We all know where we’re going. We’ll have to take the highway around the north shore and down the west side of the lake, about forty-five klicks. We’ll skirt Ramadi. No way to avoid that. We should be able to make Dulaimi’s compound in less than an hour, just when you had discussed showing up.”
Colby smiled. “About the same time of day he rolled into Baghdad. We might as well keep it consistent. Let’s do it.”
Shortly after 0800, they rolled out of Camp Saif, making way for armored vehicles, APCs and Bradleys as they deployed on the morning patrols. Their convoy fell in behind, grateful for the escort back out to the highway, where they could trail behind most of the force until it turned toward Ramadi.
