by Richard Fox
“I’ve seen worse. You could have—” He stopped when she raised a hand.
“Don’t say it. It might happen,” she said.
“I’ll get you some…..” He trailed off as he cocked an ear to the sky.
“What?” she asked.
A sudden whine filled the air, followed by an explosion just outside the base. The concussion popped his ears as gray-and-black smoke rose over the outer barrier. Ritter wasted no time; he pulled Davis to her feet and hustled her to a concrete bomb shelter twenty yards away. His ears rang from the blast as they stumbled toward the shelter. Ritter pushed her head down as he nearly tossed her into the shelter. He fell in behind her; he half lay on top of her in the narrow confines.
Another blast shook the ground as something metallic stuck the concrete shelter. A third blast struck in the distance, too far away for them to feel the concussion. They lay still for another minute.
Davis tried to push herself onto her knees, but Ritter pulled her back down.
“No, that was three. Abu Five Rounds owes us two more,” he said. Davis rolled over to face Ritter. Their noses were close enough to touch; he took a moment to appreciate her deep-green eyes.
“Eric, this is weird but…” She stopped as his lips pressed together hard enough to turn them white. “What?”
“Cindy, you have puke breath,” he said.
She gasped and rolled back over to face the shelter wall. Ritter said nothing else to comfort her. He knew that when you find yourself in a hole, its best to stop digging.
Ritter low-crawled to the edge of the shelter and pulled apart the wrappings on a pallet of water. The water was wrapped in brittle, sun-bleached plastic. He took an unmarked bottle from inside and unscrewed the cap. The water was warm to the touch, but it would suffice.
“Here.” He offered the bottle to her. She sat up and rinsed her mouth out.
They sat in silence for several minutes, waiting for the Abu Five Rounds to finish the job.
“All clear! All clear!” someone yelled from the other side of the wall. Sergeant Greely stepped past the partition and looked into the shelter. “You two OK?”
Davis scrambled out of the shelter and blew past Greely. Greely watched her go, then gave Ritter his best shit-eating grin. “Sir!” he said, flashing two thumbs-up.
Ritter just shook his head. “Why is it all clear? My math wrong?”
“No, sir. That Abu Ahmet guy called—said he caught Abu Five Rounds in the act,” Greely said.
“You don’t say,” Ritter said. Abu Ahmet was proving to be a valuable ally, but Ritter suspected he was trying too hard and too fast.
“I do say, and I say you can thank him personally in a few minutes. He said he’s bringing that bastard straight to us. You got some reward money for him?” Greely said.
Ritter touched the bulge of the mint bills in his cargo pocket. “I’ll make it worth his while.” He crawled out of the shelter and stood up. He stretched his arms wide, then let them flop to his side when he looked at the shelter. A hunk of shrapnel, which was the size of a Magic Marker, was embedded in the concrete. He touched it with the tip of his finger. Still hot.
A Soldier raised a yellow-and-black-striped bar, the final obstacle to Abu Ahmet’s BMW before it entered Patrol Base Dragon. Shelton and Ritter stood next to the company guidon, its infantry blue marred by Iraqi dust.
“If that car blows up and kills me, I swear to God I will come back and haunt your ass,” Shelton said.
“Fine. Promise me you won’t scream, ‘This is Sparta!’ and kick him into the burn pit.”
“I promise nothing,” Shelton said.
The BMW stopped a yard from Shelton and Ritter. Abu Ahmet gave them a quick wave before he got out of his car.
“Hello, habibi. I have a gift for you,” Abu Ahmet said as he approached Ritter with arms wide. He clasped Ritter by the arms and kissed him on both cheeks. Abu Ahmet moved to repeat the greeting with Shelton, who thrust his hand out to shake Abu Ahmet’s hand instead.
“Tell him I will rip his lips off if he ever kisses me,” Shelton said with a smile.
“My friend, American men just shake hands when they greet each other. Best to stick with that until he’s been in Iraq a bit longer,” Ritter said.
Abu Ahmet laughed as he walked back to his car. He fished a remote key fob from his pocket and held it next to his head. The color drained from Shelton’s face as he reached for his sidearm. Ritter lashed out and pinned Shelton’s hand on the holster. Abu Ahmet pushed a button, and the trunk popped open.
“You see Abu Five Rounds in the car? Of course, he’s in the trunk,” Ritter said. Shelton yanked his hand from Ritter’s grasp. Shelton’s lip twitched with anger as he glared daggers at his old friend. Ritter rolled his eyes and moved to the open trunk.
A fat Iraqi took up most of the trunk, his hands and knees bound by silver duct tape. He tried to speak through the tape covering his mouth as he looked up at Abu Ahmet. His eyes widened in shock when he saw Ritter. His murmured protests grew louder as he reached to Ritter.
“You’re kidding,” Ritter said.
“You’re kidding me,” Shelton said as he joined the pair at the trunk. They looked at the bound man like he was a dead engine.
“Abdul Karim is his cousin. When you took him prisoner, this piece of shit had to strike back at you or look like a pussy,” Abu Ahmet said. “I knew where he likes to shoot his mortars, so I sent men to his normal spots to wait for him. I tried to stop him before he could fire, but they were set up too far away from where I was hiding to get them in time.”
“They?” Ritter asked.
Abu Ahmet pulled his prisoner from the trunk and dumped him to the ground. The man crawled like an inchworm toward Shelton and away from Abu Ahmet. Shelton backpedaled from the prisoner, who reached for Shelton’s ankles. The man pleaded through his gag.
“The reward is only for him. The others were just there to help him with the tube and the mortars,” Abu Ahmet said sheepishly. “Think nothing of them. They won’t bother you again.” Abu Ahmet winked with his last words. “Besides, I brought you this instead.” He gestured to the trunk, where a long mortar tube ran the width of the trunk. Ritter bent into the trunk and took a whiff from the tube; it smelled of propellant.
Soldiers gravitated toward the detainee; conspiracy-laden whispers and outright threats emanated from the growing crowd. Abu Five Rounds didn’t care about the encroaching hostility; he tried to put as much distance as possible between him and Abu Ahmet.
Nesbitt shouldered his way to Abu Five Rounds and kicked him in the kidneys. The man curled back and howled behind his gag. “That’s for First Sergeant Dickson!” Nesbitt yelled.
Shelton stepped over Abu Five Rounds and stiff-armed Nesbitt back into the scrum of Soldiers. “Next Soldier that wants to hurt this detainee can go through me!” He held his arms bent, fists balled and ready to accept a challenge. “Any takers?” There was no answer. “You all know how we handle detainees: dignity and honor! It doesn’t matter who they are or what they’ve done. They will meet justice through the courts, not out here.” He lowered his hands. “If we break the law to get revenge, we’re no better than these animals. We won’t win the war with poisoned hearts. You know this.”
He knelt over and slowly pulled the tape from the detainee’s mouth.
“Please, don’t leave me with him! He’ll kill me. I swear it!” Abu Five Rounds pointed to Abu Ahmet as he spoke.
Ritter looked around; neither of the interpreters was in the crowd.
“What’s he saying?” Shelton said.
“‘I’m innocent. He framed me.’ Blah-blah-blah,” Ritter said.
“Lieutenant Kovalenko, transport this man to the battalion holding area after you escort the medics back to Victory,” Ritter said to the lieutenant, who was already in his battle armor for the mission. The lieutenant pulled the detainee to his feet and cut the tape at his knees before frog-marching him to the waiting line of vehicles.
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“What was that all about?” Abu Ahmet asked.
“Nothing. What did you do with his helpers? Do they know anything about our missing men?” Ritter asked.
“I shot them and left their bodies in the dirt. They weren’t al-Qaeda, just mujahideen,” Abu Ahmet said.
As an Army officer, Ritter’s duties were clear. Abu Ahmet had admitted to murder and should be handed over to the Iraqi courts. All standards of conduct and decency required Ritter to treat Abu Ahmet as a criminal and end any cooperation. But he wasn’t bound by those rules anymore, not since he’d rejoined the Caliban. The Caliban Program had no rules, and being an accessory to murder was of no consequence.
“Keep that between us, understand?” Ritter said. Abu Ahmet waved a hand in front of his face as if he were shooing a fly.
“I have something for you, but it isn’t here. There’s an empty chicken coop next to the house of a man we detained months ago, Salim Kadur al-Qarghuli. You know him?”
“Yes, I know the place,” Abu Ahmet said.
“Buried in the coop, near the corner closest to Mecca has what you need to fight al-Qaeda. It’s yours. Put it to good use. But remember, we need our Soldiers alive. Any al-Qaeda who know where they are must be delivered to us alive. Understand?” Ritter stepped close to Abu Ahmet as he spoke and grasped his hand. An American would have bolted at such closeness, but Abu Ahmet’s Arab sensibilities would appreciate the gesture.
“Of course, habibi,” Abu Ahmet said, “What about the reward for that fat bastard?”
“Don’t get greedy on me, but the reward for him will have to go through normal channels,” Ritter said.
“Greedy? When you kill a snake, you have to bury it,” he said, repeating an old Iraqi proverb.
Ritter lifted a plastic bag resting against the wall and handed it to Abu Ahmet. “Real American cigarettes for you. Cookies for your children.” Abu Ahmet smiled at the carton of Marlboro Reds but frowned at the green box of cookies.
“What kind of cookies are these?”
“Thin Mints, an American delicacy. Don’t let the Soldiers see them. I won’t survive the night if they know what I gave you,” Ritter said.
Ritter lifted the drop arm and let Abu Ahmet’s BMW leave the base. As the fulcrum that aided the movement, the drop arm was a pair of cinder blocks chained together. Ritter wondered how much a contractor charged for this technological wonder as he lowered it back into place. He nodded to the Soldier in the driver’s seat of a boxy M113 personnel carrier, who gunned the engine and backed the Cold War-era vehicle to block the entrance.
He took the last drag of his Iraqi-brand Miami cigarette, and tossed the butt into a wooden ashtray built into a chest-high wooden platform. Abu Ahmet had insisted that Ritter take the pack in thanks for the fresh carton and shared a smoke before he left.
As an intelligence source, Abu Ahmet was proving invaluable, a fact that nagged at Ritter. Running sources was its own specialty, one that hadn’t concerned Ritter while he was with Caliban. Still, the relationship between him and Abu Ahmet was simple enough: Ritter wanted something and paid Abu Ahmet when he delivered. Ritter had never imagined himself as a john and would never compare Abu Ahmet to a prostitute to his face.
What would he do about Abu Ahmet once his services were no longer needed? If they drove out Mukhtar and his al-Qaeda allies, Abu Ahmet and his well-armed and well-funded militia would remain. Given the choice, Ritter preferred the devil he didn’t know over the devil he did.
Shelton and three of his lieutenants huddled around the front of a Humvee in the motor pool. Shelton waved him over.
“Captain Ritter, we’re engaged in a teachable moment concerning Abdul Karim and Abu Five Rounds. Care to join us?” Shelton said.
“Happy to help,” Ritter said.
“Lieutenant Park, if you please,” Shelton said.
“Sir, those two pricks are going to sit at Cropper for a month or so and probably not say a goddamn word to their interrogators.” Park said. “Then they’ll cool their heels at Bucca until the war ends. We don’t get shit for intelligence from the way we do interrogations. Why don’t we keep them and do things a bit differently?” He looked at Ritter, “You’re a spy guy, sir. What could you do without anyone looking over your shoulder?”
Ritter wanted to thank the young lieutenant for throwing a grenade into the conversation, one Ritter was now obliged to jump on.
“Even though I’m an intelligence officer, I’m forbidden from running an approach outside an official interrogation facility like Cropper and Bucca. That’s something of an obstacle to getting much done out here,” Ritter said.
“What’s an ‘approach’?” Kovalenko asked.
“Questioning techniques like good cop/bad cop. Out here, I can only do direct questioning. No coercion or incentives.”
“Are you allowed to tell us what the approaches are, or is that top secret?” Lieutenant Marist asked.
“The manual with all the approaches is online. Field manual…34-54, I believe.” Ritter’s answer elicited a look of dull surprise from Marist.
“It’s online? Won’t the bad guys read it and know how to beat the interrogators?” Marist said.
“Maybe that’s why we get so little useful information out of the detention centers,” Park said.
“That’s bullshit! Why don’t we just do that waterboarding thing like everyone knows we did on Khalid Sheikh Mohammed? That worked, didn’t it, sir?” Marist asked Ritter.
Ritter scrambled for some way to steer the conversation away from Khalid Sheikh Mohammed. Leakers—and Ritter had a good suspicion who they were—had let loose several rumored enhanced interrogation methods used on Khalid Sheikh Mohammed. This leak had put the US government in the precarious position of lying about what had been done to “high-value” detainees, who were squirreled away to black sites for years after their capture. Categorically denying the leaks would have been easy, but all those detainees would face trial at Guantánamo Bay. Details would emerge during the trial, details the government couldn’t hide.
“Torture never works, does it Captain Ritter?” Shelton said. Shelton gave him a slight nod. Ritter kept his face slack, fighting the anger that blossomed in his mind. Now he knew why Shelton had called him over. Shelton wanted Ritter to parrot the official line on torture, give an outside opinion that mirrored his own, and make him look brilliant. If there was one thing Ritter hated, it was being played.
“Torture works so long as you’re asking the right questions,” Ritter said. He wanted to smile as the assembled officers looked at him as if he’d grown a second head. “If you use torture, you have to know something about the subject. What he’s done, who he knows—that sort of thing. Getting some schmuck off the street and ripping his fingernails off until he talks is worthless. There’s no way to verify his information. Ask the subject questions you know the answer to. If he lies, then he suffers. He suffers until he tells the truth and learns that the truth is his only option. After a while, you ask questions you don’t know the answer to, and you verify that information. Lying? Suffer. Truth? Comfort. Everyone breaks after enough time. At that point their minds are an open book.”
Shelton crossed his arms, his body language betraying anger that his gambit of involving Ritter in the conversation had failed. “It didn’t work at Abu Ghraib, did it? How much information did we get from naked men stacked in pyramids or threatened with dogs?”
“Amateurs, with no purpose. Pure sadism. Naturally, no intelligence of value came from that. But we did get a whole slew of new restrictions on how we interrogate people. I’ll let you decide how much that’s helped the war effort,” Ritter said.
“Sir, how do you know all this?” Park said.
Because I used a set of brass knuckles to break four ribs of a Pakistani teenager who knew the whereabouts of Khalid Sheikh Mohammed’s safe house in Rawalpindi. Because I held a flame to the skin of a Yemeni who knew the name of a man carrying a money belt destined for a terror ce
ll in Jakarta. I burned a line of black skin from his fingertip to his elbow before he cracked. These were things Ritter didn’t say.
“I’m a student of history. The French dealt with these issues during the conflict in Algeria,” Ritter said.
“And the French lost that war,” Shelton added, seizing an opportunity to make his point.
“I don’t think I could ever torture someone. It’s just wrong,” Kovalenko said. Ritter was thankful for the change in topic but decided to pick the low-hanging fruit Kovalenko offered.
“Let’s go with a classic scenario. You have a terrorist in custody, a terrorist that has a nuclear bomb ready to explode in an American city and the clock is ticking. Would you stick to the manual that might work or hammer nails into his thighs until he starts talking?” Ritter asked.
“No, sir. We’re Americans, and we don’t torture,” Kovalenko said.
“How many lives is your conscience worth?”
The lieutenant didn’t answer. His eyes darted from left to right as he tried to process the scenario.
“For our purposes, it doesn’t matter. There’s only one way we handle detainees out here, and that’s the right way, the Army way. Correct, Captain Ritter?” Shelton said. Ritter felt relief as Shelton found a way to reframe the conversation. Shelton took the discussion away from the theoretical, which wasn’t going his way, and went to the practical, for which there was only one answer.
“Of course, our duties and responsibilities are clear,” Ritter said.
“If you men will excuse us…” Shelton said to his lieutenants. They returned to the headquarters building, the rocks of the motor pool ground crunching beneath their footsteps. Shelton waited until they were beyond earshot before continuing. “What’re you doing?”
“I don’t follow,” Ritter said.
“What do you think would have happened if I hadn’t stopped Nesbitt from abusing that detainee any further? A war crime. Everything you said about torture is a war crime. You just put an idea into the minds of my lieutenants that maybe, just maybe, a war crime could be acceptable.”
