Primary Target

by Jack Mars

  “Yeah, man. I’m talking to you. Enjoy those thirty years inside. I’ll be thinking about you when I’m sipping rum and Coke in Barbados.”

  Just then, the first group of women and girls were brought outside. They squinted in the bright sunlight. It was unfortunate timing. The girls were afraid of the 1st Cav soldiers, as it was. But they cowered when they saw the remains of Parr’s militia.

  All but one.

  An older woman in a long black robe and black headscarf broke off from the group.

  “Ma’am?” said one of the young soldiers escorting them. “Ma’am!”

  She walked up to Ed’s blond friend and spit in his face. She shouted something in Arabic at him. She waved her hand in his face. Two other women came up and pulled her gently by the shoulders. She let them lead her back to the group.

  The big blond’s hands were pinned at his sides. He had no way to wipe off the woman’s spit. The guy chained behind him leaned in and whispered something to him. The blond shook his head.

  Ed laughed and nodded. “That guy’s having a day.” He raised his voice and addressed the guy again. “Having fun, Blondie?”

  The guy looked at Ed again. He said something under his breath. It sounded like “Shove it.”

  Ed’s grin was wider than ever. He raised his arms, turned his face to the sun, and took a deep breath. “Light of day, baby. The breath of freedom. It’s gonna be a long time before you see or taste either one again.”

  The 1st Cavalry colonel looked at Luke and Ed.

  “You boys need a ride home?”

  Luke looked at Ed. “You ready, big man? Or you want to catcall these guys a little more before we go?”

  Ed shrugged. “Ready when you are, boss.”

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  1:35 p.m. Arabian Standard Time (6:35 a.m. Eastern Daylight Time)

  The Embassy of the United States in Iraq (aka the Republican Palace)

  The International Zone (aka the Green Zone)

  Karkh District

  Baghdad, Iraq

  It was hot out.

  The bright sun, and the heat, went straight to your head.

  Luke had changed into khaki pants, boots, and a T-shirt. He needed the upper body freedom that the T-shirt gave him, but he still wanted the kick that the boots would give him. This was a big guy and it was going to take a lot of oomph to finish him.

  “Listen,” Mark Swann said. “This is ridiculous. You guys don’t have to do this.”

  Luke gestured with his head. “Talk to him.”

  They were standing in a small stone courtyard. A fountain had once been in this courtyard, but at some point the Americans had ripped it out and paved it over with cement. That seemed a shame, but now it made a perfect little fighting square.

  Across the courtyard was Ed Newsam. From here, he looked almost impossibly large, formidable, as invulnerable as a mountain. It would be hard to take him down. He was dressed just the same as Luke—khakis, boots, and a T-shirt.

  “This has to be done,” Newsam said. “The man nearly got me shot. Then he nearly took my head off himself. You don’t know it, because you don’t live in that world, but he’s got a little reputation for getting people killed, shrugging it off, and moving on. A boss is one thing, and that’s fine, but everybody deserves respect. I’m not dying for Hot Rod’s next promotion. We’re just gonna make that clear.”

  Luke heard the words coming out of Ed’s mouth, but had trouble connecting them to himself. An image of Martinez, paralyzed, missing body parts, and crying flashed through Luke’s mind.

  We were your guys. Now we’re dead. All but you.

  Luke shoved that away. He was in a fight. If he didn’t dial in, this big man was going to take his head off.

  “I’m going to call Don Morris,” Trudy said.

  “Go ahead,” Newsam said. “He’ll know I’m right.”

  Luke and Ed began to circle each other. They moved closer, closer… Somehow, word must have gotten out that a fight was underway. People, mostly men, wandered out of the embassy building. Several soldiers in uniform began to coalesce around the outside of the square. This was old hat to them—fights happened sometimes. They used their bodies to obscure the view of people further away, especially people in authority who might stop the fight prematurely.

  Luke glanced at them. A couple of them were MPs.

  “Come on, little man,” Ed said. “Throw a punch and give these people a show.”

  “It’s your fight,” Luke said. “Not mine.”

  Ed shrugged. “Okay.”

  He charged, moving like lightning for a man so large. His left fist pinioned out, a jab. Luke slipped it, darted inside, and landed his own jab directly to Ed’s face. Then he bounced backward again, out of Ed’s reach. He immediately circled to his right.

  A small cheer went up from the crowd. David had struck Goliath a blow.

  But Luke saw Ed’s eyes. That hadn’t hurt him a bit. Surprised him? Yes. Frustrated him? Sure. Annoyed him? You bet. But hurt him? Not a chance.

  “That all you got?” Ed said.

  This was going to be a long war.

  Suddenly, someone was clapping their hands. The sound was LOUD. A man’s voice came.

  “Uh, dummies?”

  The crowd was turning toward the man. Luke didn’t take his own eyes off Ed, not for a split second. That would be a recipe for disaster. He’d probably wake up on the plane ride home.

  “No, not you guys. Them. Those dummies. The tough guys. The rest of you idiots, don’t you have someplace to be?”

  Luke and Ed continued to circle.

  “Stone!” the man shouted, and Luke knew who it was without having to look.

  Ed glanced that way, and Luke took the opportunity to back up. He looked to his right. Big Daddy Cronin stood there.

  “Don’t make me come in there. I’ll kill you both dead.”

  They stared at him.

  Now he smiled.

  “Nice work this morning, boys. Beautiful. Fast, clean, no collateral damage, makes us look like the good guys for a change. I like that. Even better, it opened up a previously unknown lead.”

  Luke noticed that he didn’t mention Davis Cole at all.

  Big Daddy held up a fist. His index finger extended from the top of it and beckoned to them.

  “Come with me. We have a visitor.”

  * * *

  Luke and Ed followed Big Daddy through the echoing hallways. Luke was so intent on keeping his eye on Ed, that they were entering a room before he noticed that Swann and Trudy had come with them.

  Big Daddy looked at Swann and Trudy in surprise.

  “It’s okay, Bill,” Luke said. “They’re with me.”

  They entered the room. It was a very small chamber, different from the one before, with solid stone walls.

  The British intelligence agent Montgomery was here, standing in the corner.

  A man sat a wooden table. He wore white robes and a black and white checkered headdress. His beard was black and gray, trending toward white, and he wore thick glasses, which made his eyes seem like fish swimming in twin fishbowls. He stood when the group entered.

  He glanced at Big Daddy.

  “These are the men?” he said in perfect English.

  Big Daddy nodded. “Yes. These are the men who saved your nieces this morning.”

  He turned to Luke and Ed and extended a hand to each of them. The man’s hands were old and frail, but had a firm grip. They stood in an awkward triangle for a moment, holding hands. The man couldn’t possibly know that Luke and Ed had just come from a fistfight in the courtyard—a fight resulting from the same mission that saved his family members.

  The man squeezed their hands tightly. A tear appeared on one cheek.

  “Gentlemen, this is Imam Muhammad al-Barak. He is a tribal elder and religious council leader in the city of Tikrit and the surrounding area. He came here today at great risk to himself and his family.”

  “The situation is very comp
licated,” he said. “Many in my region are supporters of Saddam. They would like to see the Americans ousted and the government restored. Many others are extremists of the type that would like to see Saddam executed, the Americans ousted, and a Sunni religious government installed.”

  Luke shrugged. The man was still gripping their hands. “Not a lot of fans of the Americans around.”

  The man shook his head in all seriousness, missing the irony in Luke’s statement. “None,” he said simply. “The rabid dogs that you killed this morning did nothing to help the American cause. My sister…”

  The man shut his eyes. Now tears streamed freely.

  After a moment, he composed himself and spoke again.

  “My sister thought her beloved daughters were lost to her. So many young ones were taken. So many in the community thought that those animals… And yet, it seemed impossible to act against them. And the American government would do nothing.”

  Big Daddy raised a hand. “Well, let’s be clear a minute. These guys work for the American government. And so do I.”

  The imam cast a baleful eye at Big Daddy.

  “We petitioned your embassy and your military leaders for months. We described the priceless artifacts being stolen, the people being murdered at will, the complete disregard for human life by these American soldiers—contractors, you call them. The embassy told us it was out of their hands. But these men came, just two men, and ended the disaster in a single morning. And the leader of this carnage is dead. Praise Allah.”

  The man finally let go of their hands. He gestured at a slim manila envelope that sat on the table.

  “In that envelope is my gift to you… and you.” He pointed to Luke and Ed in turn. “I ask, in all sincerity, that only you men open it, and only you men make use of what is inside. I consider it a goodwill gesture, and believe me when I say I will know what happens and who is involved.”

  What was the man offering them—a check? Two tickets on a cruise liner? Plane tickets to a Red Sea resort? For a moment, Luke pictured himself and angry Ed Newsam lying back on lounge chairs side by side, sipping drinks and looking out at the water. It was an odd meeting.

  “Oh, we can’t accept tips,” Luke almost said, but didn’t.

  “What is it?” he said instead.

  “It is a map to a location in the western desert,” the man said. “It is a lawless territory, and the people are openly hostile to your government and its plans. The location is a camp, and people are trained there for what you would call terrorism.”

  “There are many kinds of terrorism,” Ed Newsam said.

  The man nodded. “Yes.”

  “Do you want us to bomb the site?” Luke said.

  “No. You must go there. There are plans afoot. I have heard rumors. Something is going to happen. The organizers are there, or were. Some of the people involved were trained there in the past—trained to withstand pain, boredom, extremes of heat and cold, physical and psychological torture.”

  Luke stared at the man. “What are they going to do?”

  The imam shook his head. “I don’t know. I cannot find out, and if I were to press for details, my life would be forfeit. The things I have already told you, and the map I have left for you, are already enough to see me hung in a public place and bled white.”

  “And only we can go there?” Luke said.

  The man nodded. “That is my request. This was my gift to you. It is a gift of thanks and of common brotherhood. I ask that you honor it in that way.”

  He stared at them a long moment.

  “Your comrades are common dogs to me. Worse than dogs. I would see this entire complex bombed to dust and all its denizens set aflame to die in agony, if Allah would permit it. May it happen this very day. But you are men of honor. You have my undying gratitude, and that of my people.”

  He looked at Big Daddy again.

  “Thank you. I must go.”

  * * *

  “You all heard the man,” Montgomery said in his clipped British accent. He was leaning back in a chair, smoking a sweet-smelling cigarette.

  He looked at Big Daddy. “This was intelligence offered to these chaps and no one else. If we’re to send men into that desert, then I say let it be them. Barak said he would know who went there, and I believe him. There will almost certainly be video feeds or captures which show who infiltrated the camp. He will take it as an insult if the wrong men go.”

  They were all sitting in yet another room—this one served as Big Daddy and Montgomery’s joint intelligence office. It was a haphazard place, with thick plywood as walls, lined with soft egg crate soundproofing. There were three desks, all covered with papers and folders and various vending machine wrappers and empty Coke cans. There were two Toughbook laptops, and wires snaking everywhere.

  “Is this really where you hold your top secret meetings?” Mark Swann said. “I mean, look at this place. Nothing about this says Your Eyes Only. I can hear people typing on old IBM Selectric typewriters two makeshift doors away. Is it even safe to talk here?”

  Big Daddy shrugged. “Normally we hold secret talks on a windy bridge south of Baghdad where the Madhi Army dumps the dismembered corpses of its enemies into the Tigris River. Would you rather go there?”

  Swann shrugged. “Nah. I was teasing you. This’ll be fine.”

  Luke was leaning back. He pulled the images from the envelope closer. They were satellite photos taken from a distance that showed the location of the camp superimposed on a map of Iraq, then progressively zoomed in to show more topographical detail, and finally more detail of the camp itself.

  The camp wasn’t much to look at—a cluster of tents, a couple of low stone houses, and some corrugated aluminum buildings in a barren desert north and west of the Sunni Triangle. There looked to be a firing range. There was a helipad and an old airstrip—the airstrip was narrow, short, and in a state of disrepair that suggested only very small and light planes could get in there, flown by people who weren’t too picky about whether they lived or died.

  “The place looks abandoned,” Luke said. “I don’t see a single car or truck. I don’t see any movement. I don’t see an active roadway. I don’t see evidence of garbage burns, or recent activity on that firing range. I don’t think there’s anybody there.”

  Luke didn’t like to look at the photos. He didn’t like them because he had carried out the mission he had been assigned, and he had done it quickly. He had killed two men this morning, and he didn’t enjoy killing. They had been here a little over twenty-four hours, and he wanted to go home. His wife was pregnant with their first child. He wanted to get back to her, hug her, and reassure her that he loved her and wanted to be with her always.

  He also didn’t like to look at them because he knew what was going to happen next. He and Ed Newsam were going to helicopter out to the desert, probably this very afternoon, and they were going to arrive at that camp before sundown.

  What were they going to find there? If Luke had to guess, he’d say they were going to find dead bodies in those tents, decomposing in the baking heat of the desert, swarming with flies.

  This was the gift the grateful imam had given him—the opportunity to find a pile of corpses of militants who had become expendable, and whatever mystery that solved or made more complicated for people like Big Daddy Cronin.

  “What do you think, boys?” Big Daddy said. “You could go out there, check the place out, grab anything interesting, and be home for supper. Tomorrow morning you can be on your way home to the States. Monty’s right. It’s on you. The man offered it to you as gift.”

  “I’ve gotten better gifts,” Newsam said.

  * * *

  The phone was ringing half a world away.

  Luke sat at a makeshift desk carrel—like everything around here, it had been built with raw plywood. There was a bank of a dozen such carrels in a row, lined up in an echoing marble hallway. A person sat at every single one of them.

  There was an office telephone
console on the desk in front of Luke, and after several tries, he had managed to dial out to an international operator, who had put the call through. The handset was pressed to his right ear, and he inserted a finger in his left ear to drown out the clatter and buzz of typing, conversations, laughter, and just plain noise all around him.

  His heart skipped a beat.

  Pick it up.

  The ringing stopped.

  “Hello?”

  It was her. Becca. Amazingly, she sounded clear, as if she were sitting right in front of him. He pictured her standing, or actually, more likely sitting, in the kitchen of the country house, the old phone mounted on the wall, the handset attached to a long, curly black wire.

  “How you doing, baby?” he said.

  “Luke?”

  “The very same.”

  She breathed heavily. “Oh my God. I’ve been so worried about you.”

  “It’s okay,” he said. “Everything’s okay. This is the first chance I’ve had to call.”

  There was trepidation in her voice. “Did you go on your mission yet?”

  “Yeah. It’s all set. We did it this morning. It went off without a hitch. We were back here by lunchtime, had a couple of debriefings, and… you know.”

  The air seemed to leak out of her. “That’s a relief. When are you coming home?”

  “As soon as we can. Tomorrow, maybe. Hopefully tomorrow.”

  “Good. I can’t wait to see you.”

  “Me too,” he said. “I can’t wait to see you.” He meant every word of it. He couldn’t wait to see his wife. He couldn’t wait to get out of here. He wanted nothing more than to get on a plane. He would do it right now, if he could.

  A shadow passed across his mind—in an hour, he and Ed Newsam were supposed to get on a helicopter to the western desert and investigate that camp. He had a bad feeling about that. Everything seemed to give him a bad feeling these days. He wondered if there would ever be a return to the time before the Afghanistan mission, a time before this terrible feeling of dread that seemed to follow him everywhere.