by Richard Fox
Porter pulled the gloves off and tossed them and the Q-tip into a plastic bag hanging from the side of the ambulance.
“We’ll get you back to the brigade aid station on the next flight,” Porter said.
“I’m fine. I can stay out here and still help,” Ritter said.
“Brigade policy. All potentially traumatic brain injury cases go in for observation.”
Ritter wasn’t done protesting but stopped when he finally recognized Porter. He was the medic who’d examined the Iraqi Shelton captured.
“How’s your head?” Ritter asked. “You were a few feet from me when it happened.”
“Actually I was on the other side of the building and missed most of the concussion. No pun intended.”
Ritter smiled, an action that hurt.
“Incoming casualties!” someone yelled outside the corral.
“That’s me. Can you monitor the radio? Let me know if Captain Shelton needs me again,” Porter said.
Ritter nodded and struggled to his feet, his balance not the best. Porter opened the door to an ambulance, and Ritter climbed in. The cool air enveloped him; relief from the heat was a cheap form of ecstasy.
A speaker next to the radio bank cracked into life.
“Caduceus main, this is Roughneck three. Stand by for casualty report,” the voice from the radio said. Ritter listened as battle roster numbers with medical care needs were passed to the brigade medical operations team. He winced when he heard his own number, along with “possible TBI.” He hoped the “possible” would keep an official notification from reaching his father. The last thing he needed was his well-connected father trying to arrange safer duty for him.
Ritter looked outside the corral. Three black body bags lay in the dust; a solitary Soldier knelt beside them. After a moment’s fugue, Ritter recognized the impressive bulk of Chaplain Kroh next to the bodies. His left hand was raised in prayer as his right lay on a body bag, his helmet at his feet.
So close, he thought. So close to my own black bag. My own closed-casket funeral. My own folded flag.
“Stand by for KIA,” came over the speaker.
“Three roster numbers follow: B-R 0168, N-K 3141.” Ritter wondered which was the driver and which was the gunner.
“J-M nine three two zero.”
The final code was for Jennifer. Ritter damned his concussion for blunting his mind, for postponing his grief until this moment.
“Say again last!” a panicked voice said over the radio.
Angry bile rose in Ritter’s throat. Who the hell would break radio protocol like that?
“I say again, J-M nine three two zero.” Realization crept into Ritter, a slow horror that twisted his guts and made his heart ache.
“Negative, Roughneck. That can’t be—” The transmission cut off. That was Joe Mattingly, begging to know whether his wife was alive or dead.
The radio remained silent for several minutes before a different voice acknowledged the report, ending the conversation.
Ritter pressed his palms against his now throbbing temples. He choked down a sob for Jennifer and banished any feelings of grief for his friend. He let anger and hatred stew in his heart. Her death demanded revenge, not mourning.
“I will find the bastard that did this to you, Jennifer. I will find him, and I will kill him.”
Chapter 11
Abu Ahmet squirmed in the backseat of a taxi, Theeb and Khalil pressing against him as if he were in a fresh pack of cigarettes. The ubiquitous, orange-and-white sedans that carried fares across Iraq were not known for their comfort or their cleanliness. Judging by the smell, Abu Ahmet suspected this taxi delivered goats and sheep to market. He elbowed Khalil’s bony body off him, buying him another inch.
His full bladder demanded attention, but this wasn’t the time for requests. After an hour, he still didn’t know where they were going; the hood over his head blocked everything. His hands, bound with duct tape, had lost all feeling.
They’d escaped the power plant in Theeb’s bongo truck and brought Samir’s body to a mosque in Jurf-al-Shakr, a small town down the river. The imam agreed to wash the body and prepare it for burial, while Abu Ahmet made a difficult phone call to Sheikh Majid. They agreed on a lie to tell Samir’s pregnant wife, Farrah. The Americans had arrested Samir again, and he would die in prison a few months later.
He cut the call when Charba, one of Mukhtar’s lieutenants from Jordan, and a dozen armed al-Qaeda thugs arrived at the mosque. Abu Ahmet and his men were quickly disarmed, hooded, and bound, then stuffed into the taxi. One of the thugs, a rat-faced Moroccan named Yousef, took the keys to Theeb’s truck. Their protests were met with strikes to the head and kidneys.
Abu Ahmet worked out his story with the time he had. The warehouse should have exploded with enough force to shake windows in Baghdad. The distinct lack of such an explosion told Abu Ahmet that Mukhtar’s trap had failed. Samir could take plenty of blame, as could Mukhtar’s departed bomb maker. The overly religious al-Qaeda would accept that it must have been Allah’s plan that the building not explode. Inshallah.
The car rumbled off the paved road. It braked to a stop after another ten minutes of rough road. Abu Ahmet heard the door open; then rough hands seized him by the scruff of the neck and extracted him from the taxi with little patience.
Curses and insults from a dozen different Arabic dialects filled the air with guttural hatred. Someone struck Abu Ahmet in the stomach hard enough to drive him to his knees. A slap across his face split his lip and knocked his head sideways. Abu Ahmet raised his hands to protect himself as the insults and shouts fell silent. He staggered back to his feet.
The hood was ripped away. A man stood in front of Abu Ahmet, washed out by cruel sunlight. Abu Ahmet let his eyes adjust to the brightness; it was Mukhtar. Men in black clothes and armed with rifles and machetes surrounded them. Some wore headbands declaring their faith in white letters.
“Salam al lakum,” Mukhtar said.
“Mukhtar, what is this? We shed blood for you today. The Americans nearly—”
Mukhtar smashed his fist into Abu Ahmet’s face. The blow staggered Abu Ahmet, but he stayed on his feet. Someone shoved him toward Mukhtar.
“You ran! You ran before the trap was set, and the Americans escaped!” Mukhtar cried.
Abu Ahmet opened his mouth to explain everything. The signal they’d sent with the mirrors, the bad design, the damn sniper—all excuses vanished when he looked past Mukhtar and into the bare fields. There was an open pit just large enough for three grown men, fresh dirt piled to the side. If he was about to die, he wouldn’t give Mukhtar the privilege of hearing him beg.
Mukhtar glanced over his shoulder at the pit. “Don’t worry; I had a change of heart. I decided to teach you an Iraqi lesson, one that you’d understand.”
Mukhtar pointed over Abu Ahmet’s shoulder. “Bring me the little one.”
Two al-Qaeda men manhandled the struggling Khalil between Abu Ahmet and Mukhtar. A kick to the back of his knees sent Khalil to the ground. Mukhtar placed a boot on Khalil’s throat.
Khalil whined; his feet kicked uselessly against the ground. He was helpless, like a lamb before a halal slaughter.
“Saddam Hussein had a special punishment for cowards and deserters.” He took a pair of shears from his back pocket. Their short, curved blades were rusted but sharp.
“Abu Ahmet, help me!” Khalil said, his tearing eyes mashed closed. Khalil was too young to remember the long war with Iran or the first war with the Americans. Too young to remember Saddam’s brand for cowards. Khalil broke into sobs.
Mukhtar shook his head, his lip curled in disgust. He exchanged the foot on Khalil’s throat for his knee, then brought the shears close to Khalil’s exposed ear. He opened the sheers slowly as Khalil cried like a terrified child.
“Khalil, it will be all right,” Abu Ahmet said.
Mukhtar hooked the blades around the top of Khalil’s ear and squeezed the handle.
K
halil shrieked as Mukhtar sliced his ear in half. His high-pitched screams nearly drowned out the cheers from the surrounding thugs.
Mukhtar stood, holding a piece of still bleeding ear by his fingertips. He wiggled the ear in front of Abu Ahmet’s face, and then dropped it on his feet. Abu Ahmet looked down; the ear piece oozed blood onto his exposed toes. He kicked it away.
“Here is your choice. Keep fighting the Americans, or you and your whole tribe are takfiri, enemies of Islam.” Mukhtar leaned close, his face only an inch from Abu Ahmet’s. His honey-colored eyes burned with hatred.
Abu Ahmet worked a mouthful of saliva together. If Mukhtar needed him alive, Abu Ahmet imagined he could weather the consequences of spitting in his face.
Hamsa tapped Mukhtar on the shoulder. Hamsa’s face was flushed, a knowing grin spread across his face.
“Done?” Mukhtar asked.
Hamsa nodded.
Mukhtar turned back to Abu Ahmet. “Go home. You have another lesson waiting for you.”
The words hit Abu Ahmet harder than any strike. What had Hamsa done?
Mukhtar marched off, trailed by his raucous men. Their war prize of a home base wasn’t far away.
Theeb ran to Khalil. Blood ran between Khalil’s fingers, staining him from ear to waist in bright blood. Khalil pulled his hands away and looked at Theeb, his face slack with shock. A tiny fountain of blood squirted from the open wound. Theeb put Khalil’s hands back over his ear and pulled him to his feet.
Theeb and Khalil shuffled south, back toward Qarghuli tribal land. “Come on, before they change their minds,” Theeb said.
Abu Ahmet sprang from Abdullah’s BMW as it slowed to a halt. Abu Ahmet ran past the wilted corn rows lining his property and the grass patch that fed his handful of sheep. A boy sat at the entrance of his tan concrete-and-mortar home, thin arms wrapped around bony knees.
“Jasim!” Abu Ahmet yelled. The boy looked up and ran to his father. Jasim’s too-large shirt flapped like a cape as he spread his arms. Abu Ahmet scooped his son into his arms and nearly squeezed the life from him.
He let go and held his son at arm’s length. Storm clouds of red, purple, and black welts darkened half of his face.
“Papa, I’m sorry.” Jasim sulked and wilted in his father’s grasp. “I tried to stop them…but…” He trailed off in a wet sob.
Abu Ahmet gave his son a quick hug and ran into his home. Smashed furniture and the contents of his kitchen were strewn across the floor. An errant chicken pecked at a burst bag of rice. The sounds of wailing women emanated from behind a closed door. Abu Ahmet picked his way past the debris of his home and pushed the door open.
His wife and daughter sat on the floor, nestled into a corner. His wife’s arms were wrapped around their daughter’s shoulders, the two of them gently rocking in unison. Fatima looked at her husband with pain-filled eyes; her nose had an unnatural angle, and blood caked her face and trickled from between her legs.
“It was that Syrian, Hamsa. He came for her,” she said.
Their daughter peeked over her bent arms, the innocence of her green eyes gone forever.
“Please, Daddy. Don’t kill me,” she said.
Chapter 12
The mess hall was a cavern of fabric and aluminum girders. Every day thousands of Soldiers cycled through for the four available mealtimes. Plastic tables covered with cheap red- and-white-checkered tablecloths ran from one end to the other. An unceasing groan of folding chairs across linoleum floors kept conversations loud and, by necessity, impersonal.
This mess hall featured a personal pizza station, ice cream, and rows of coolers stocked with sodas, Rip It energy drinks, and sickening near beer. Hamburgers of grayish meat were always available along with generous portions of french fries. Each day the mess hall featured a different lunch and dinner from a rotating schedule of meals frozen in the United States and shipped to Iraq. For breakfast, a design-your-own omelet station was available. By this point in the war, a Soldier could deploy for a year and never eat from the bagged MREs, meals ready to eat.
The place was on par with the half dozen mess halls at Camp Victory. Younger Soldiers, those who had missed out on the austerity of the first year of Operation Iraqi Freedom, still complained about the food. Their only recourse was the nearby connex-cum-restaurant stalls serving food and ice cream from America’s favorite fast-food restaurants.
On occasion, Soldiers from the Spartan patrol bases found their way into the mess hall. Their uniforms were caked with road dust and sweat, and their rifles were kitted out with optics and lasers. They gawked at the sheer size of it all and opted for the simple hamburger and french fries. They ate in silent knots, barbarians wary of the more civilized locals. They rarely ate dessert, as though guilty to have a luxury denied to their fellows who were still at the patrol base.
Ritter and Davis sat across from each other, both pecking at their food—his a plate of chili and rice, hers a chicken cordon bleu hockey puck. They hadn’t spoken much since she found him at the brigade aid station following yet another traumatic brain injury exam. She’d moved closer to hug him but stopped herself halfway. She’d simply inquired how he was, then left. She’d avoided him the next day, finally joining him for this unsurprising lunch.
Ritter took out a clear plastic baggie filled with 800 mg Motrin tablets, colloquially named “horse tablets.” He popped two pills and chased them down with bottled water.
“How bad are the headaches?” she asked.
“Better, actually. Now it feels like a hammer-wielding midget, not Thor, is pounding on my skull,” Ritter said.
“Sounds like a hangover without the upside of getting drunk,” she quipped. “Is that all they gave you?”
Ritter nodded. “Motrin and water, medic’s cure for anything that isn’t bleeding.” He checked his watch; they had plenty of time.
“You know”—she stabbed at her cordon bleu with her knife, a cheese-like substance welling to the surface—“no one would question if you skipped the service. You haven’t been to other memorials. I don’t know if you’re superstitious or…” The memorial service for Mattingly and the other two Soldiers who had died was half an hour away.
“We all mourn differently.” He pushed his plate away, his appetite gone. “Is Joe still here? He was supposed to go back to the States yesterday.”
“There was some paper work hiccup, but he should leave tonight,” she said.
Joe had suffered a nervous breakdown after learning his wife was dead. A series of powerful medications had brought him under control, and the brigade commander had placed him on emergency leave to bury Jennifer. No one knew whether their daughter had been told.
“Think we’ll see him again?” Ritter asked.
“No. Rumor is he’ll stay in the rear detachment back home. Can’t see how he’d be any use out here anymore.” She placed her hands on either side of her tray and nibbled her lower lip. “Eric, I know I’ve been a bit weird since Jennifer…passed. We’re Soldiers. Death is part of—”
“Excuse me. Coming through!” A burly civilian in the pseudo-hunting khakis of a personnel security team jostled his way past Davis. She scooted her chair closer to the table and looked away from Ritter.
The distraction provided enough time for someone to slip a note beneath Ritter’s hand resting next to his tray. He automatically slipped it beneath the table’s edge, a somatic reflex conditioned by years of intelligence field craft. He looked down, ignoring Davis as he read the note.
Roadside
2 Min
CLB
Ritter couldn’t decide which pissed him off more—their nerve or their timing? CLB could only mean one thing, Caliban. His old associates wanted a word with him.
“Cindy, I’m going to go. I’ll see you at the service.” He grabbed his rifle from the floor and stood up. Ritter hated himself as Davis’s chin quivered. Was she about to cry or shout at him? He wanted to stay, to listen to her, and to help her process Jennifer’s death. But t
he people who demanded his attention didn’t take no for an answer.
He laid a hand on her shoulder and gave it a gentle squeeze before he picked up his tray and left.
Ritter walked quickly from the mess hall and dumped his food in the garbage bin. He should have left it all with Cindy, but that act would have generated attention, raised his profile in the mess hall. This was the time to do everything as normally and predictably as possible. The midafternoon heat pressed against him like a cooling iron as he jogged past the concrete T-walls protecting the mess hall from mortars and toward the asphalt road beyond the parking lot, which was full of SUVs.
He stopped at the road and checked his watch. Only seconds to spare. An SUV with tinted windows pulled out of the parking lot and stopped in front of him. He heard the rear door unlock as he reached for the handle.
As he grasped the hot metal of the handle, he paused. He’d left them. He’d left them, and they’d made it clear that there was no coming back after a termination like his. He toyed with the idea of flipping off whoever was in that SUV and moving on with his life—the same way he’d done so two years ago.
But why did they want him? Hibou’s plea for “outside assistance” came to mind. If this contact and the missing Soldiers were related, the lead would be worth pursuing. He opened the door.
The backseat was empty. A Hispanic man with massive shoulders and a neck as thick as Ritter’s thigh sat in the driver’s seat. The man looked at Ritter and lowered his sunglasses enough for Ritter to see his eyes. He winked.
Ritter hadn’t seen Carlos in years. The whole scene was reminiscent of the first time they’d met at the airport in Peshawar, Pakistan. This time Ritter didn’t have to ride in the trunk.
Ritter climbed into the backseat and shut the door. The SUV pulled away as Carlos adjusted the rearview mirror. His forefinger tapped three times, his pinkie once. Ritter acknowledged the “remain silent” signal by scratching his face with two fingers.
