by Richard Fox
“When I heard you were reassigned to us, I was rather surprised.”
Ritter doubted Hibou had been half as surprised as he was. Before arriving in Iraq, Ritter had been assigned to an air-assault brigade at Fort Campbell, a unit not slated for deployment until the end of the year. Without explanation, orders came down, transferring Ritter to the brigade, which was already in Iraq. It was the Army administrative equivalent of a lightning bolt from a clear-blue sky. His chain of command had fought to keep Ritter, but whoever had cut the orders was immune to persuasion.
“You have combat experience,” Hibou continued, reading from the bio sheet, “native Arabic speaker, graduate of the captain’s course…But you didn’t finish the officer’s basic course at Fort Huachuca.”
Ritter felt a bit of relief; he’d told this lie many times.
Hibou lifted the bio closer to his face and squinted. “Says you were assigned to the European command for several years as your first duty assignment. Odd since you joined the Army right after 9/11.”
Ritter nodded. “I was selected for a study-abroad program through the Sorbonne in Paris. The personnel clerks don’t know how to code it and—”
Hibou shook his head, halting Ritter’s explanation. “Do you remember Captain Schultz? Second Lieutenant Schultz at the time you were at Huachuca? He’s the intelligence officer for Shelton’s battalion.”
Ritter didn’t answer. His eyes crept up and to the left, the normally unconscious body language sign for memory recall. Ritter remembered Schultz as a borderline idiot and had done all he could to avoid him once he’d learned the two were in the same brigade.
“Schultz remembers you. He remembered you were at the lieutenant’s course for a week. Then you vanished from the face of the earth.” Hibou leaned forward, lowering his voice to a whisper. “Naturally, this led to some questions from a curious bunch of cherry lieutenants, questions the course instructors couldn’t, or wouldn’t, answer. It’s like you never existed. Then there’s your masked reports from your time at European command.”
Hibou paused, baiting Ritter to fill the silence with an explanation, but Ritter kept his poker face.
“After a decade and a half in military intelligence, I’ve seen this sort of thing before. Black ops, protected status in the personnel system, units with very odd or boring names. Experienced Soldiers with particular skills get into those units, but not some so-new-he-squeaks lieutenant. What were you doing? Do you have any contacts who can help us find our guys?” Hibou leaned back as he finished, hope and curiosity in his eyes.
Ritter debated his response. Hibou’s analysis of Ritter’s career was annoyingly correct. Ritter knew the paper work supporting his official back story was in order and was irrefutable. A flat-out denial would insult Hibou’s intelligence, but the truth was impossible. To speak of the Program would endanger both Ritter and Hibou. Ritter decided a nonanswer would have to make do.
“Sir, if I was ever a part of some black project—I certainly couldn’t speak of it.”
Hibou’s face twisted in annoyance at Ritter’s response. He slapped both palms on his lap. “No, of course you couldn’t. Forget I asked. But there is one more thing.”
“That being?”
“Both Captains Mattingly, Joe and Jennifer, are assigned to the mission—she to handle any logistics issues and he to handle detainees. As you can imagine, having a married couple on—”
“I’ll go,” Ritter said, no further explanation needed.
“Thank you. Who should sit this one out?”
Ritter thought for a moment. “Joe. He can stay back and process any detainees. Plus, my Arabic—that’s one less interpreter we have to drag along.” With any large mission, any “enablers,” military-dog handlers, combat photographers, civilian journalists, or unarmed interpreters decreased the number of combat Soldiers available. There were only so many seats in a convoy or in an aircraft. For every enabler added to the mission, an infantryman was invariably dropped due to lack of room. A commander could bring all the mission support staff he needed but end up with no dedicated trigger pullers to accomplish the mission. “Enablers” was a contradiction in terms.
Thank you. They don’t know anything about this, and let’s keep it that way. Last thing I need is for Joe to take this as an ego hit and create a giant pissing contest,” Hibou said as he rifled through the operations order and crossed out Joe’s name, writing in Ritter’s name on top. “You have your Combat Action Badge; no one will think you’re out sniffing for medals.”
“Let’s hope not. Anything else, sir?”
Hibou shook his head. “Stay safe.”
Ritter nodded and left the office.
Chapter 9
Abu Ahmet slowed his BMW as the dirt road narrowed over a canal. A dirty car was a fact of life in Iraq, but driving into a canal was avoidable. The car thumped into a pothole, rear wheels spinning before they caught, lurching the car forward. Theeb chuckled as the chassis rocked.
“Keep laughing and you can clean it,” Abu Ahmet said. Theeb shut up.
The ride smoothed as the car approached a distant compound, a juggernaut of tan walls over the expanse of fallow farmland. A five-foot-high wall, topped with interlaced iron bars, ringed the large home at the center of the compound. A lithe man stood next to a pair of gas cans at the roadside.
“Let me do this,” Abu Ahmet said as he stopped next to the impromptu gas station.
The skinny man knelt over and scanned the BMW. He said nothing but smacked his lips as he folded his arms over the top of Abu Ahmet’s lowered window. “We have an appointment,” Abu Ahmet said. Theeb’s hand crept toward the pistol hidden in the passenger door. He could put two rounds in the man’s chest on Abu Ahmet’s signal.
Theeb’s fingers wrapped around the pistol grip as the man nodded and reached behind his back, but Abu Ahmet gave no signal. The man pulled a cell phone from his rear pocket; his thumb clicked the device. He flipped the phone around, a picture of Abu Ahmet on the screen. “All right, go ahead.” The man’s Libyan accent was so thick Abu Ahmet almost didn’t understand him.
Abu Ahmet rolled up his window and drove on. Theeb watched through the rearview mirror as the man carried both gas cans to the opposite side of the road. “It that the signal to kill us or let us in?” he asked.
“Do you think al-Qaeda would harm their guests? Here, in the heart of Iraq?” The question was rhetorical. It was one of the few points of culture that all Arabs, from Morocco to Oman, could agree with; the paramount social more was the care and protection of one’s guests.
Theeb mumbled through clenched teeth as they parked outside the wall. “If there are any Yemenis, all bets are off. Damn animals.” He pulled the pistol, an old Soviet Makarov, from the door and slipped it into a holster hidden beneath his shirt.
“How many times do I have to tell you? We are guests. Put that away,” Abu Ahmet said as his big farmer’s hands went white-knuckle tight on the steering wheel. Theeb fished the pistol out of the holster, ejected the magazine, and removed the chambered round. He snapped the loose round into the magazine and slipped the magazine into his pocket as he left the car.
A double-door metal gate might have opened for them, but it was chained and locked shut. They walked to the single-sheet metal door at the far end of the wall. The door hung from hinges clinging to the exposed brick of the wall. When the homeowners had opted for a new entryway, they’d simply knocked out the wall and installed a door with minimal fuss or care for aesthetics. Abu Ahmet noted that the rust scarring the door was poorly hidden by a layer of sky-blue paint. He knocked on the sheet metal door with the back of his knuckles.
“Whatever happened to the Shi’a family that lived here before the war?” Theeb mused.
“One rumor is they fled to Basra. Another is they’re buried in the wheat fields behind the house,” Abu Ahmet said. “Why? You want to buy the place?”
“The war has to end someday,” Theeb said as he shook a cigarette out of his
pack. He lit it with a lighter so hot, the flame burned blue.
The door creaked open, and a teenage boy motioned for them to follow. Theeb and Abu Ahmet stepped over the foot-high brick threshold. The courtyard was an expanse of filth and chaos. Stinking heaps of garbage straddled burn pits, emanating gray-black smoke that lent to the fog of unwashed bodies, rotting food, and feces. Men in black T-shirts and baggy linen pants cleaned weapons or lounged around tea sets. Arabic a cappella singing warbled from a tape player. Abu Ahmet stifled a chuckle as he listened to the al-Qaeda propaganda. He was always amused by jihadi hypocrisy. More extreme forms of Islam expressly forbid music, but a man singing without instruments was oddly acceptable.
They followed a narrow footpath through the garbage toward the main house. Abu Ahmet looked beyond the house to a large, detached garage and a cherry-red cargo truck with white wooden sides nestled within. Men with surgical masks and thick work gloves poured large sacks of gray powder into the truck bed; a burly man with a steep widow’s peak supervised. The man did a double take as he noticed Abu Ahmet and Theeb. He shouted at the men in the garage in an Arabic dialect foreign to Abu Ahmet, and the men hastily slammed the garage door shut. The man puffed his chest and swaggered toward the two guests.
“They’re loading that truck with explosives, or I’m a Jew,” Theeb said.
“The silver color,” Abu Ahmet said, “they must be using aluminum powder in the mix to enhance the blast. Samir hasn’t found any in weeks. Where the hell did they find enough to fill up that truck?
“Looks like we made a friend,” Theeb whispered as he took a long drag on his cigarette. “Maybe we can ask him.”
“You! You can’t smoke here!” the man yelled as he jabbed at Theeb with his finger. Abu Ahmet pegged him as Lebanese from the accent. The man’s face was too small for his head, as if it were a balloon filled with one breath too many.
Theeb slowly exhaled the smoke, the cigarette still planted in his lips.
“Smoking is against Islam!” The loudmouth stopped a few feet from Theeb and clenched his fists.
Abu Ahmet looked at Theeb and motioned toward the ground with a nod. Theeb spat out the cigarette with a puff of air, where it fell onto a rumpled shirt. The man stomped on it with his foot and leaned toward Theeb. “We issued a fatwa against smoking. If I ever see you smoking again, I will drag you in front of our judge and then whip you myself,” he said.
Abu Ahmet decided he didn’t like this man, but this wasn’t the time for a lesson in manners. “Brother, please forgive us,” he said as he crushed the still lit cigarette with his foot. “We live far to the south and had no idea about the fatwa.” Abu Ahmet looked at Theeb and said, “Did we?”
“No idea,” Theeb popped off.
The man’s hands unclenched, but a sneer stayed on his face. “We live by sharia in the caliphate. Don’t forget that.”
“No, no, never.” Abu Ahmet forced a smile, flashing rotting teeth. “Your name, brother?”
“Hamsa al-Libnani,” he said with no small amount of pride.
Abu Ahmet placed his right hand over his heart. “A name we won’t forget.” Abu Ahmet winked at Hamsa as he spoke. He kept any trace of malice from his voice yet hoped this brute could understand feigned civility.
The teenager cleared his throat. “Atif is waiting for them.” Hamsa snorted and walked back toward the garage.
“Theeb, avoid pissing anyone else off until after we get paid,” Abu Ahmet whispered. Theeb grumbled as they followed the teenager into the house.
Abu Ahmet tapped his fingers on his thigh as he waited for the accountant to finish watching a video on his laptop. This accountant was a bit of a bastard when it came to payments and insisted on watching every second of an attack video. Video proof of attacks wasn’t a new requirement to get paid by al-Qaida, but it ensured the best price.
“Do you see the helicopter yet? They put two crusaders on with the stretchers; neither has returned to the base, but I don’t know if they died.” Abu Ahmet tapped his fingers faster and mentally cursed himself for not smoking a cigarette earlier. Why was this taking so long?
The accountant, a Saudi named Atif, took his headphones off and spun his office chair to face a knee-high safe behind his desk. He unsubtly maneuvered his thin body between the safe and his guests, blocking their view of the combination, and opened the safe. He spun back around, a tan briefcase in hand.
“Three bomb attacks on the Americans, which is three hundred dollars each.” Atif pulled a stack of hundred dollar bills wrapped with a “$5,000” label. “Two wounded Americans, five hundred each.” He ripped off the wrap with his thumbnail and counted out nineteen bills in front of Abu Ahmet and pushed the stack across the table.
Abu Ahmet stared at the stack but didn’t touch it. “That isn’t all. You used my bomb maker, Samir, for your attack on the Americans,” he said slowly and evenly.
Atif’s upper lip twitched in a sneer. “We paid him.”
“You borrowed him without my permission. If the Americans figure out he was involved, that will create many problems for him and the tribe.” Abu Ahmet turned his eyes to the larger stack of bills. “We’ll have to send him to Ramadi to hide for months. Such a burden on the tribe and his family. I don’t know how things are in Saudi Arabia, but in Iraq such a problem requires compensation.”
“You’ve shed no blood, but you want money? Be glad we pay you anything!” Atif yelled as he snatched away the remaining bills, clutching them against his chest.
“Atif, you are too stingy,” said someone behind Abu Ahmet. Abu Ahmet’s reflexes sent his hand toward his missing pistol as he spun around.
A man in a blue-and-white tracksuit stood in the doorway. A beard, trimmed short but full enough to mask the jaw and cheeks, framed a wide and handsome face. Abu Ahmet felt his guts twist as the man’s honey-colored eyes cast an assessor’s gaze over him. Abu Ahmet and Theeb rose and averted their gaze.
“Mukhtar, we’re…honored to see you.” Abu Ahmet did his best to keep his voice suitably pleasant. Showing deference to someone who was nearly twenty years his junior galled him, but a few kind words for the local emir of al-Qaeda were in order.
Atif scurried out of his chair as Mukhtar swept around the desk and sat down. Theeb and Abu Ahmet returned to their seats, murmuring, “Allah buhair,” to invoke Allah’s blessing on the meeting as they sat down. Mukhtar nodded slightly and repeated the incantation with little effort. His lip service to local Iraqi customs was a source of indignation for many tribal leaders who dealt with him.
Mukhtar smacked his lips and ran his fingers along the desk edge. “I owe you an apology for borrowing Samir. My last engineer—may Allah receive him—had an unfortunate accident, and I needed someone to finish the bombs. So I brought Samir in and kept it a secret. Security, you understand.” Mukhtar ended his words with a wink.
“It was a mighty victory for the jihad,” Atif said.
“Yes, a mighty victory,” Abu Ahmet added flatly. His lack of enthusiasm elicited a twitch from Mukhtar’s face. “But we have a saying in Iraq: ‘You never farm another man’s field.’ If the Americans find out Samir was involved, blame for the attack will fall on my tribe, and it will be our problem, not yours.”
Mukhtar extended his arms to his side. “Abu Ahmet, we’re all on the same side, all fighting the same fight.” He made a raking motion with the hand closest to Atif. Atif grumbled and handed Mukhtar the stack of bills, now smeared with sweat. Mukhtar slid the bills across the table and relinquished them with a quick pat.
Abu Ahmet swept the bills off the table with a poker dealer’s ease and handed the stack of bills to Theeb, who stashed them in a thigh pocket.
Mukhtar snapped his fingers, and Atif scurried to open the safe. “Unfortunately, my new bomb maker is held up in Syria, and I have need of Samir for something very important very soon.” He smiled as Atif placed a stack of bills, the surrounding band promising “$10,000” within, in front of him.
“
Samir is an excellent bomb maker. Will he need help?” Theeb asked, glancing over Mukhtar’s shoulder and into the safe. Abu Ahmet could kiss Theeb for his quick thinking. The sight of more money on the table made Abu Ahmet’s mouth water.
“Please, tell us about the task. We know Samir so well, and he isn’t the only one in the tribe who can make a bomb. Could you use more help?” Abu Ahmet’s smile widened.
Mukhtar’s eyes flickered between Theeb and Abu Ahmet. “The Americans are like donkeys, predictable and stupid. I dangled a carrot before them, and now they’re planning an attack on the old power plant to the south.”
Abu Ahmet glanced at Theeb, who shook his head. “We haven’t heard anything about this.”
Mukhtar sneered. “Then you need better spies, my friend. I need Samir to finish the surprise I have waiting for them.” He held up a palm, and Atif placed a tight roll of bills in his hand. Mukhtar flicked an elastic band off the roll and peeled off three one-hundred-dollar bills. He placed them on top of the stack in front of him.
“I need Samir and three of your fighters—”
“Eight,” Abu Ahmet said.
Mukhtar laid two more bills on the pile. “Three. Samir and three fighters will go to the power plant immediately. Hamsa will meet you there.” Mukhtar cocked his head slightly, waiting for a response.
Abu Ahmet nodded and reached across the table for the bills in front of Mukhtar. Mukhtar placed his hand over the pile, blocking Abu Ahmet. Mukhtar shook his head and made a disobedient tsk-tsk sound. “We’ll pay you afterward.”
Abu Ahmet sat back, his heart aflame with avarice. That money, and what he’d already been paid, was more than most Iraqis would earn in their entire lifetimes. “Yes, it’s only fair.” Abu Ahmet stood and cracked the knuckles on a gnarled hand. “Maybe we can see those Americans you took at the power plant?” he half joked and immediately regretted those words.
