by Richard Fox
Cleaning his weapon was an escape for his mind. The simple task of field-stripping and then meticulously cleaning his weapon was something he did by rote, allowing a Zen-like calm. For a few minutes he could forget all the—
Someone banged on his door. Two knocks were followed by a two-count pause and then another two knocks. He instantly knew who it was.
“Come in!”
Shannon opened the door and quickly closed it behind her. She locked the door with a flimsy sliding bolt and pressed her back against the door. She was in khaki pants and a matching safari vest over her blouse in the contractor-chic style popular with every civilian working with or for the coalition effort in Iraq. She slid her right foot up the door and pressed her palms against her thighs.
“What are you doing here?” Ritter asked.
“If I wanted to talk, I would have worn underwear,” Shannon said with a sultry voice.
“Ha-ha,” Ritter said without humor. “You and Carlos must still be an item, or you’d have transferred him to the top secret wing of the CIA’s polar bear investigations unit by now.”
Shannon giggled and dropped her seductive air as she sat on Ritter’s unkempt bed.
“Now, what are you doing here?” Ritter asked again.
“As far as everyone else is concerned, I’m here to conduct a health survey of all the Iraqis we treat tomorrow—part of my in-country cover story. Convenient, isn’t it? Call me Genevieve around the uninitiated.”
“Genevieve? You’re still using the Genevieve Delacroix alias? I thought you burned that name after we left Chechnya,” Ritter said.
“I’m not using a passport. Besides, the name is fun.”
“It sounds like something out of a romance novel, and you still haven’t answered my question. What are you doing here?”
Shannon pursed her lips and reached out to touch Ritter’s knee with her fingertips. “We need to talk. You left under such—”
Ritter moved his knee away from her touch. “Business first. What do you have on finding Mukhtar?” The past was the last thing he wanted to talk about. Being this close to Shannon set his combat instincts on edge. He wouldn’t let her set the tone for any conversation; giving her the slightest advantage was always a mistake.
She sat up straight and rubbed her palms against her thighs. “We’ve turned up a lead. Mukhtar gets his cash from a Saudi financier. The Saudi government says he travels to and from Iraq to make his payments, and they’re keen to find him. Riyadh has a decent read on his network, but they want the bagman before they move on it.”
“I’ll keep my ears open for a Saudi,” Ritter said. “What about the video?”
“The analysts back at Langley are still bickering over it. But, given the amount of time that’s passed, the general consensus is that we won’t find them alive.” Her voice lowered as she spoke the last part, as if the analysis was a statement of absolute fact.
“Then why am I still out here? I’ve turned up precisely jack and shit in the way of intelligence,” he said.
“This isn’t like old times where the target is handed to us on a platter for execution. This is detective work. You’ve made great strides with the locals.”
Ritter went back to brushing out his pistol. “That isn’t why you sent me out here, remember? I’m a giant ‘kick me’ sign for this patrol base, and it worked! Did you see the crater from the car bomb on your way in? Eight feet deep and twenty feet wide. Everyone on this patrol base would be dead if it had made it to the gate.”
“If we knew Mukhtar had that capability, we would have—”
“And if my aunt had balls, she’d be my uncle,” Ritter said.
Shannon sighed heavily and rubbed her hands together. “I knew it was a mistake to bring you back. Your history with Mukhtar put you at risk, yes, but it was the best way to flush him out. It worked—can’t deny that. Do you want an extraction? I can get you back translating pocket litter at the brigade headquarters if that’s what you want.”
Ritter slowly moved the brush against the trigger assembly, letting the individual whiskers on the brush snap away from the gun. “No, out here I’m useful—I matter.”
“Eric, our last conversation before you went back to the Army was too emotional for my liking. Why did you leave us? You mattered then. You did more to win the long war than you ever did in uniform,” Shannon said with her usual gift for understatement.
“It was the children. After that last drone strike, I couldn’t…I didn’t want to do things where the death of children was acceptable to accomplish the mission,” Ritter said. “We should be better than that. We should be better than the people we’re fighting.”
“I told you at the beginning. I told you we do the hard things others can’t to win this war,” she said.
“I thought I could be that kind of person, but I guess I can’t.” Ritter reassembled his pistol, thankful for a reason not to look at Shannon.
“I envy your courage.” Her compliment caused Ritter to drop the pistol barrel back on his towel. “Our line of work withers the soul. I’ve been at it for so long that I don’t remember when the good part of me slipped away forever. I was so confused when you begged me not to launch the missile. I didn’t care about the collateral of a few Pakistani children. All I wanted was to kill the man inside that house.”
“You weren’t the one on the ground. I was on the ground next to Mike as he lased the target. I watched those children die with my own eyes. It’s different than seeing it on the drone feed,” Ritter said, his voice faraway.
“If you felt that strongly, why didn’t you stop Mike from using the laser designator? You could have fouled up the strike,” she said.
Ritter let out a single chuckle. “Because Mike would have gutted me like a fish and let me bleed to death on that mountain.”
“But the children might have lived.”
“No, they were as good as dead no matter what I did. If I interfered with the first missile, Mike would have ended me and guided in the second, third, and forth missile that drone carried. I didn’t want my death to be a futile gesture.”
“I certainly never thought you’d come back to us, even for these missing Soldiers. I lost a bottle of Michael Collins single malt to Mike on that bet,” she said. The team had a habit of betting expensive whiskey on the many outcomes of their missions. Ritter found it odd that Shannon would bet against Mike, who had an unbroken string of victories whenever alcohol was on the line.
“Mike thought I’d come back?”
“He didn’t doubt it. After you left, he said your soul belongs to us—with us. Excuse me. He said you belong with us and that you’d be back before too long,” she said.
Ritter remained silent as he reassembled his pistol. He locked the charging handle back and peered down the barrel.
“Maybe he’s right.” He slid the barrel forward and slapped in a full magazine.
Shannon stood and undid the clasp holding her hair back, then ran her fingers through her black locks, giving herself a wild look. She pulled the front of her blouse out from beneath her belt and then started unbuttoning the top of her shirt.
“What are you doing?” Ritter asked.
“Plausible deniability. Can’t tell people what we’re actually doing in here, can we?” She stopped undoing the buttons almost halfway down her shirt, exposing plenty of cleavage and the upper edge of a frilly bra.
She stood up, nodded to Ritter, and grabbed the handle. She looked over her shoulder and said, “I’m sorry about your friend.” She motioned toward the photo Cindy had sent him before she walked out the door. Ritter’s heart skipped a beat as she left. Did Shannon know there was something between him and Cindy? Shannon had an infuriating habit of chasing down facts she thought she had the business to know, like a junkie searching for a fix. She let the door stay open as she sauntered into the early evening. Ritter scrambled for the door.
“Hi, Soldier,” Shannon said to someone in a sweet voice as she walked away from Ri
tter’s room. Sergeant Greely’s draw dropped as she passed by; his eyes took a shameless look at Shannon’s rear. Greely looked over at Ritter, who stood in his doorway, then back at Shannon. He looked at Ritter again. A grin spread across his face as he flashed a thumbs-up to Ritter.
“Sir!” Greely said.
Ritter considered protesting, but sometimes appearances must be kept up. He winked at Greely and shut his door.
Ritter dropped his tray in the garbage bin as he left the mess hall. The cooks had put out frozen waffles and chicken tenders for dinner, a Dragon Company tradition the night before any big operation. At least the food was hot, Ritter thought. He meandered back toward his room in the full moonlight, hoping to avoid any sight or interaction with Shannon.
“Eric!”
Ritter turned around and saw Lieutenant Davis running toward him. Two female Soldiers were behind her, smoking cigarettes near the burn pit.
“Cindy? What are—Christ, who else is here?”
“Who else?” Davis asked.
“Nothing. Are you security for tomorrow?”
“That’s right. One second—” She turned to the smoking Soldiers. “Private, you two can head back whenever.” She turned back to Ritter. “Captain Shelton wants us on the buddy system while we’re here. So you’re my buddy until further notice.” She jabbed his arm.
Ritter smiled. “It’s good to see you, but I don’t know why they let you leave the pit. There are how many drones watching the event tomorrow? Three?”
“I’m not the drone wench anymore. Joe went back to the States for the funeral, and he won’t be back. He’s kind of a mess, and they’ll stick him on the rear detachment for the rest of the deployment. Someone has to handle detainee management, and I volunteered,” she said.
“How’s the new job treating you?”
“More spreadsheets to deal with. Why didn’t you warn me there are fifty different ways to spell Muhammad?”
“There’s just one way to spell that name,” he said.
“If you write it in Arabic! I spend half my time fighting transliteration errors and the other half indulging Lieutenant Colonel Reynolds’s nitpicks. At least this job gave me the opportunity to sneak off Victory base for once.” She leaned in and whispered to Ritter, “I will never complain about the food or the bathrooms at Victory again.”
The lights running along the outer walls cut out, leaving only the moon to light the base. Ritter took a step toward Cindy and cupped her elbow.
“They black out the base at night. Not sure if they warned you about that. Abu Five Rounds, the local mortar man, likes to use the light as an aiming point,” he said.
“That sergeant—Young, I think—tied to tell us something about the pissers and the shitters. That turned awkward real quick,” she said. They shared a laugh as Ritter led her toward the guest quarters, a glorified plywood shack cooled by a pair of air conditioners propped up along the walls. Ritter stopped as he caught a glint off Cindy’s bootlaces.
“You have a dog tag on your boot,” he observed. The dog tag stuck out like a puppy’s ear from the base of the laces.
“Oh, I didn’t think you’d notice.” She lifted the toe of her boot and rocked her foot back and forth.
“You need to stick it under the laces,” he said, his tone somber.
She half bent over, then quickly stood back up. She looked at the door to the guest quarters; a woman’s laugh snuck past the paltry walls. Davis chewed her bottom lip for a moment, then took a half step toward Ritter.
“Things haven’t been the same since you left. You’re out here, Joe won’t be back, and Jennifer...I know this’ll sound selfish, but I miss you—you all.” She reached out and gently took Ritter’s hand. “Then you almost get blown up in the first week and—”
Ritter gently pulled his hand away.
“I’m sorry. I forgot that you’re not one for emotions.” Davis lowered her head and turned to the door.
“Cindy.”
She stopped.
“It’s too dangerous out here for...attachment.” Ritter face burned with embarrassment from possibly the worst word possible, but he decided to continue instead of digging his hole any deeper. “But we won’t be out here forever,” he stammered.
Cindy waited in front of the door for a heartbeat, then went inside.
Ritter shook his head as he walked away. Interrogations were less complicated than relationships.
Captain Shelton nodded to yet another wizened farmer as he entered the courtyard, a woman in an all-encompassing burka and three small children behind him. The turnout for this mission had exceeded everyone’s expectations; more than one hundred Iraqis had come through for a cursory examination and complimentary over-the-counter medications. Everyone who came in also left with a flier featuring his or her missing men and a number to call to pass on any leads.
Shelton checked his watch. Only a half hour until they returned to base. Only half an hour for Abu Ahmet and Sheikh Abdullah to make an appearance. Ritter seemed nervous that the pair weren’t the first to arrive. He’d said that If Sheikh Abdullah wanted the wasta for this event, he should have been there to greet every Iraqi that came for treatment; that way the Iraqis would know who to thank for this rare service.
An elderly Iraqi had assured Ritter that Abu Ahmet was working on something important and would arrive soon. That “soon” was several hours ago, and every passing minute gave more credence to Shelton’s fear that their trip home would end in a deadly ambush.
Shelton took the radio mike from Channing and opened the frequency. “This is Dragon Six. Give me an update on drone coverage for our route back to base. Over.”
“You keep bugging the operations center, and Reynolds will reach through that radio to strangle you,” Ritter said. He pulled a small stack of fliers from a plastic bag in the back of Shelton’s command Humvee. He wasn’t wearing his body armor or his helmet, which irritated Shelton to no end. Ritter insisted on “removing barriers to rapport” but kept his pistol on a thigh holster because of Shelton’s insistence.
Shelton kept the earpiece next to his head as he gave Ritter a dirty look. “Twelve hours. We’ve been out here for twelve hours, and not one IED has gone off and not a single shot has been fired at us,” he said. “We broke the record two hours ago.”
“I can pop off a few rounds, if it’ll make you feel better,” Ritter said. Shelton ignored him as he got into his Humvee to check the battle-tracking computer bolted next to the front passenger seat.
Ritter took the fliers to the waiting line and passed the papers out to the men in line as he repeated his spiel detailing the missing men, how much their families missed them, and the substantial reward for any information leading to their rescue. Ritter knew most of the men he had spoken with that day couldn’t read or write, but the photographs of O’Neal and Brown were enough to get the message across. Ritter wondered how long it would take for one of those fliers to make it back to Mukhtar’s hands.
The wrought iron gate guarding the entrance to the school creaked open behind Ritter.
“Captain Ritter!” Abu Ahmet said in Arabic as he beelined to Ritter. The armpits of Abu Ahmet’s dishdasha were dark with sweat; the rest of the garment was dusted with ochre Iraqi earth and sand. Abdullah was a step behind him, but he peeled off and jumped the line of those waiting to see the doctors.
“I was worried you weren’t going to show up,” Ritter said. Abu Ahmet stopped a hand’s breadth from Ritter; he reeked of sweat and cheap cigarettes. Ritter cursed the Arab cultural norm of “standing close enough to share the same breath” as he held his ground from Abu Ahmet’s funk.
“Karim, the other bomb maker…We know where he is. My men are watching his home; we’re positive he’s there,” Abu Ahmet said between deep breaths.
Ritter half stepped around Abu Ahmet, keeping an eye on Abdullah as he waved to someone in the classroom, which served as the examination room for the female Iraqis.
“Where? Can you ta
ke us there?” Ritter asked.
Abu Ahmet shook his head rapidly. “If Karim’s tribe sees me there, it will put bad blood between our tribes. Give me a map. I’ll show you where he is,” he said.
“Wait. You can read a map?” Ritter said. Iraqi navigation was based entirely on spatial relations to landmarks. An Iraqi could explain exactly where his family farm was based off where a canal forked next to his second cousin’s goat farm and the place where Saddam Hussein once stopped for tea at the home of a former Ba’th Party official’s second wife. Asking the same Iraqi to point out a location on a map was like asking someone to explain what the color blue tasted like.
“I spent twenty years in Saddam’s Special Republican Guard. Yes, I can read a map.”
Ritter led Abu Ahmet to Shelton’s Humvee. Ritter bit his tongue to halt another question; Abdullah demanded more of his attention. The young sheikh spoke to Shannon through one of the female interpreters, just beyond his hearing. Shannon pointed toward the entrance as she tapped the interpreter on the shoulder. The interpreter nodded emphatically as she mimed Shannon’s gesture, taking her attention away from Shannon and Abdullah. Abdullah used the distraction to slip something into Shannon’s hand.
So that’s who her source is, Ritter thought.
Ritter opened the door to Shelton’s Humvee. His friend slapped his hand across the digital map on the tracking station when he saw Abu Ahmet standing behind Ritter. Digital tracking software wasn’t anything special, but the blue icons showing every vehicle in Iraq was something Iraqis shouldn’t see.
“I think we’ve got something,” Ritter said.
Lieutenant Davis had no idea what was going on. One minute she was giving candy to an adorable, little Iraqi girl, and the next, she and the rest of the medics had to load back into their vehicles. No explanation given. They left in such a rush that the boxes of medicine and sundry items meant for the Iraqis were left unsecured on the floor of her MRAP. She hadn’t spent much time on tactical convoys, but she knew if this top-heavy vehicle rolled over into a ditch, the loose items would ruin the day for everyone not in the front cab or gunner’s hatch.
