by Chuck Logan
After a quick assessment Morgon understands why he’s here, why the suits are sitting on their hands and playing it low-profile. “And you will put him in that hole after I verify he’s who you say he is and that what he found is real and that it’s been destroyed.”
“So it’s about trust,” Ahmed takes his lower lip between his teeth.
Morgon leans back, measuring this Ahmed kid with his snappy language skills and his iPhone. He says, “I read once where the Emperor Domitian had the palace walls covered with mirrors so he could see everything around him at all times.”
Quickly catching the drift, Ahmed lowers his eyes in deference. “Nobody knows about this except Noland’s work crew and inner-circle members of my uncle’s tribe.”
“And we’ll keep it that way,” Morgon says.
Chastened by the flick of menace implicit in Morgon’s glance, Ahmed bobs his head. “For sure. But what’s the big deal? They’ve been turning up odd lots of chemical munitions for years, mixed in with regular ordnance.” Then, more slowly, he reflects, “But, okay, this is like 400 rounds on the original pallets. We thought that chemical junk was destroyed back in 1991. Some Republican Guard supply officer got lazy and just dumped it in the sand.”
“Exactly,” Morgon says. “You turn it in, and here come the cops and the army. There’d be an operation order to come collect the stuff. They’d vet the intelligence. Too many people would be in the loop. Word would get out. Reporters, Ahmed. In the current political climate back in the States, Noland and his rusty batch of old shells could stir up hype, possibly even revive the old WMD boogeyman in the midst of the troop drawdown.” Morgon smiles and pats Ahmed on the knee. “Buck up, lad. It appears we’re protecting the president’s poll numbers.”
Ahmed nods. “Among other things. But this is dangerous stuff Noland found, if it got into the wrong hands.”
“Goes without saying. So where is he?”
“We have him secured in a tool shed on his work site.” Ahmed’s eyes alternate between Morgon’s face and reading the text on his phone. “We’ll be there in about five hours. I’m thinking we’ll make it look like Noland was kidnapped.”
“Have you ever been around this kind of play before, Ahmed? Like in the new Iraqi military or the insurgency?” Morgon asks.
“Actually no,” Ahmed says. “I missed the war, I was doing undergrad and getting an MBA at Boston College when they recruited me. This is my first real-world assignment. I’m here because of my family connection. Don’t worry, the guys with us are some hard dudes . . .”
“Right, inner-circle members of the tribe.” Morgon takes a weary breath. It’s not the first time a nervous suit in D.C. has put him in the middle of amateur hour. “We’ll do just fine,” he says, running his hand along the leather upholstery. “Nice wheels.”
“Yeah,” Ahmed says, “but they’d draw the wrong kind of attention where we’re going.”
“And where are we going?”
“It’s called Turmar, north of Samarra.”
Chapter Three
Forty-six miles north of Baghdad Jesse Kraig sits in a phone cubicle waiting for her call to go through. The calling station is built along the Internet café’s back wall. Behind her, soldiers, Guard primarily, lounge at row upon row of computer stations playing video games or chatting online. The regulars have mostly been pulled off the base. The café is more popular for calling home than the AT&T trailers where they gouge you on the phone cards.
Trying not to be impatient, which might show in her voice, she studies the cubicle’s plywood walls, and it occurs to her that her main memories of Iraq—apart from a few edgy nights playing tag with hajji tracers so far—will involve a monotony of sand, T-walls, and plywood. It’s versatile stuff, plywood. During WWII, the British used it to build the Mosquito Bomber. Probably where they started calling aircraft “crates.”
She shifts the receiver from one ear to the other.
The Defense Switched Network phone system will connect to the army base nearest to Iowa City, which is the Iowa Army Ammunition Plant next to Burlington. That way she’ll be billed with a local call. Terry finds it amusing that their phone conversations are mediated through a munitions factory.
Whatever. She drums her finger on the plywood desktop. Then the connection pops in her ear.
“Hello, this is Terry.”
“Terry, hi; it’s Jesse . . .”
“Hey, how’s it going? You okay?”
“I’m fine.” Pause. “Terry, we need to talk . . .”
“We are talking,” he says with slow precision, getting the range.
She takes a breath, lets it out. So much for preamble.
“Jess?”
“I sent back the ring.”
“Okaaayyy . . .” he responds, drawing it out. She can tell by his tone that he is not surprised. And in the suspended silence she imagines him calculating his options and deciding to wait. There’s always a chance she could stumble on an emotional hurdle.
“Look,” she says firmly, “I applied for Fixed Wing and got accepted. If it works out, I have an eye on a pilot slot in the King Air Group . . .”
“So you’re thinking of extending?”
“I already have, for two years.”
“Then what? Drive a bus for Delta?” And now his voice betrays the slightest undertone of resignation.
“That’s not the point, Terry.”
“Right, it’s a question of where and who you spend your time with.” As a correct afterthought, he adds, “It’s your choice, of course.”
She expects this. His style is to say the appropriate thing, play the aggrieved party, and let her be the bad guy. That way he can lay back and hope that remorse might set in. Then his control slips slightly and he asks, “You sure?”
“I’m sure. I report to Rucker for Aircraft Transition two weeks after I demob out of this place.” She listens to silence on the line, then says, “C’mon, Terry. This was always in the mix.”
“What you really mean is that I wouldn’t make a good pilot’s wife, huh?” He manages to insert a lilt of dark humor in his voice. This is what happens when two self-contained people are forced to face the obvious. “I assume you’ve thought this through,” he says.
“C’mon, Terry; it’s been there for years, hanging fire . . .”
“So, bang. You’re pulling the trigger, huh?”
“Bang.”
“Better than a whimper I guess.” His voice turns breezy. “Okay, then. I won’t drag it out, because I suspect you’re standing in line with some terribly nice boys from Armpit, Kentucky, and such. So you take care of yourself over there, hear?” He mocks a Southern accent.
“You too, asshole,” Jesse says with a slip of grudging fondness.
“See you around, Jess. Watch your six.”
“Will do. See you, Terry.”
The connection goes dead. Jesse hangs up the receiver, gets up from the chair, turns, and studies the soldier standing behind her. “Where are you from, Specialist?” she asks.
“The fuckin’ Georgia National Guard, ma’am,” he answers without batting an eye.
When Jesse exits the building, staff sergeant Marge Bailey is waiting in a dubious rectangle of shade next to the door. Seeing Marge, Jesse shivers in the heat and says, “Not exactly ideal, a long-distance phone call.”
“Some people would have just changed their personal status on Facebook to single. But you’re sure, right?”
Jesse stares at her. “What, is there, an echo going around? Yes, I’m sure.”
“Just asking. You were with him for like . . . three years?”
Jesse tugs her cap lower over her eyes. “Look, he’s a lot of fun to hook up with. And he’s got all the right moves. Like, he puts down the army—but he enlisted right after 9/11 and did a tour with the 173rd in Afghanistan.” She narrows her eyes at the horizon where the dust is stacking up like beige blocks and adds, “Probably joined up to spite his parents. Like when he dropped out of
law school.”
She turns and points a finger at Sergeant Bailey. “See, the thing about Terry is, he’s always going to get his way. And he’s going to loosely interpret the forsaking-all-others clause. In the end, he’ll model on his parents. His dad is an attorney for North Dakota Mill and Elevator.” She shakes the finger for emphasis. “And his mom gave up a teaching career to be a corporate wife.” Jesse clears her throat. “Pardon my venting, Marge, but I’m not going to be Mrs. Terrence Sherman.”
They start walking toward the intelligence shack. Instinctively they both want to get a read on what’s building up in the western sky.
“So now it’s Fixed Wing,” Marge says.
Jesse nods. “It’s the smart move. Being Guard I won’t have the obligation I’d have in the regulars. And I get the same schools.”
“And when you break free of all this bullshit?” Marge swings her head to take in the sprawling ranks of containerized housing units landscaped with T-walls.
“Might be fun to fly a news chopper back home. Or maybe get on with Life Lift. The oil and power companies are always looking for pilots. Some of the bigger contractors are putting together helicopter fleets . . .”
“That sounds like signing on for more sand,” Marge says.
Jesse cocks her head and momentarily yields to a daydream. “I’ve always wanted to fly the Dehavilland Beaver in Alaska. My bush-pilot fantasy, huh?” Then, in a more practical tone, “If nothing else works, there’s the airlines.”
For several beats their boots go crunch on the gravel. Then Marge says, “Fixed Wing makes sense. Aviation is a track where women are underrepresented. You’d have a leg up.”
“I’m aware of that,” Jesse says, “but I’m not counting on it. I intend to pull my own weight.”
“A suggestion, Captain?”
“By all means, Sergeant.”
“You’ve got the competent part nailed. But you might want to work on being just a tad more low-key . . .”
Jesse grins. “Say what you mean, Marge.”
Marge shrugs, “If you present less ego, there’s less chance of snagging on some flight instructor’s macho tail feathers.”
“I’ll put it on my list,” Jesse says as she evaluates the incoming weather and quickens her stride. “C’mon, I don’t think anybody’s going up in that . . . uh-uh.”
Chapter Four
North of Baghdad they stop at a safe house to switch vehicles, and now Morgon rides in the passenger seat of a gray GMC Suburban headed north on National Highway One. Ibriham Construction is lettered on both of the truck’s doors, in Arabic and English, just like the place names and the mileage on the passing road signs. Ahmed has doffed his blazer for a safari shirt and, wearing a Red Sox cap, sits behind the wheel. Morgon has changed his travel loafers for a worn pair of Timberland boots and has stripped down to a T-shirt. Now they both wear Kevlar body vests. Over the kid’s objections, Morgon’s cranked down the windows and switched off the AC to adjust to the heat.
The security men in the escort vehicles are thorough if not real talkative professionals. They have passed through half a dozen Iraqi National Police checkpoints with only a cursory inspection.
As they enter the slums on the outskirts of Samarra, Ahmed, slightly more edgy, explains the scenario thus far. “About the nerve gas, we brought in a crew of strictly inner-circle clan members. It took us two nights to unearth and inventory the artillery rounds. We did it right: full hazmat suits, regulators, nerve-gas antidotes, everything. Tonight, after you verify, we’ll finish entombing the stuff in cement, just like Chernobyl.”
“Fine,” Morgon says. “How much longer on the road?”
Ahmed nods toward the afternoon sun. “Two more hours.”
Morgon settles back as they slow to pass through a cluster of houses partially fenced with concrete T-walls. More of the slabs spill off the blackened wreckage of a lowboy trailer. They pass a long line of cars queued up at a gas station. The sullen drivers lean on fenders, beyond bitching. A woman in a burka scrubs a large X from the wall of a house. As the convoy rolls by, she scurries for a doorway. A young man crosses the road talking on a cell phone, oblivious to the raw sewage beneath his high-top tennis shoes. Behind barricades of piled garbage sacks and the dark houses, Morgon hears the hum of a gasoline generator. A smoky stain curls in the air, redolent of burning refuse. Somewhere a plaintive voice chants Arabic in an amplified call to prayer.
“Virtual Iraq,” Morgon quips.
“How’s that?”
“New therapy the VA’s experimenting with to desensitize vets to combat stress. They strap you into this head-mounted display and headphones. Like being inside a video game. Then they dial in terrain, weather, urban landscapes, sound, even smells. And threats, of course.”
“Does it work?”
“Probably for the company who’s marketing it.”
Ahmed cocks an eyebrow, amused. “Here I think they give our guys two Aspirin and a kick in the ass.”
Ten minutes later Ahmed points to the sky ahead that has reared up into an adobe wall. As traffic empties off the road, he turns to Morgon with a pained expression. Morgon just shrugs and takes it in stride, saying, “You live in a desert. The wind blows.”
So Ahmed pulls to the side of the road behind the lead vehicle. The driver jogs back, his face now protected by a headdress. They converse fast in Arabic, and then the security man, his silhouette already disappearing in the flying sand, leans into the wind and trudges back to his Suburban.
Ahmed frowns , “We’re stuck here until this damn storm passes.” He points at the brake lights in the gloom as the lead car slowly explores a way off the road. “He’s going into the village to locate some food. We might be here a while.”
Morgon takes his book from his bag along with a clip-on reading light as the world beyond the windows turns to grainy night.
Ahmed is apologetic, “We could try to muddle our way through, but my guys aren’t real keen about driving through these Shia districts blind. Less so hauling an American.”
“Relax, Ahmed. Mr. Noland isn’t going anywhere. So sit back and enjoy the weather show.”
“Don’t worry, it’ll clear. I’ll have you back to Baghdad tomorrow afternoon.”
Chapter Five
Nobody has just one job anymore. If Jesse isn’t flying, she’s tidying up administrative flight company details. She’s walking through the fitfull dust storm looking for the battalion quartermaster. One of his enlisted men had his ankle broken by a forklift when a work detail was unloading pallets of water and Dr. Pepper. If this is true, the battalion has now incurred its first casualty in the war zone. If you don’t count PFC Joan Camp, a company clerk, who came down with a terminal case of missing her period and was shipped home.
About six steps from the supply hooch, a headquarters specialist jogs up to her and says, “Capt’n Kraig, Master Sergeant Dillon’s looking for you.”
“What’s up?” Jesse says, reaching for the door.
“It’s, ah, Toby. He just got in a dustup on the flight line with two wrench monkeys from that Alabama Maintenance Unit. Now an officer’s come over and wants to talk to Toby’s direct superior. That’s you.”
“Wonderful.” Toby is Spec Four Toby Nguyen, her door gunner on Tumbleweed Six. He’s also the company comedian. Jesse lets the door swing shut. “Where are they?”
“By the day room, and, ah, Capt’n . . .”
“What?”
“The officer who came over, he’s a chaplain.”
“Great.” Jesse spins on her heel and heads across the gravel apron toward the company day room. Looking up, she sees sunset emerge from a momentary lull in the gloom. But she doubts if it’s clearing; the reports predict a huge storm. Rounding a pod of sandbagged trailers, she spots master sergeant Sam Dillon rolling her way with purpose.
Sam, the flight company top sergeant, has his own way of doing things. Worse, he’s older than her father. And the last thing she needs is a surrogat
e father figure mucking up the landscape. So here comes Sam with the bearing of a weathered ramrod because he carries three combat stars jammed in the wreath over the Combat Infantry Badge on his chest. A widower, he’s the oldest trooper in the battalion and, at 60, he’s pushed the max age limit the Guard allows a soldier to fly combat. The men in the unit, officers and enlisted, refer to him as “Grandpa Dillon,” their Neanderthal, a relic of the drafted army. But they don’t say this to his face, because he’s logged more bullet time over the last four decades than the whole battalion combined.
Sam did twenty years active, then another twenty as an investigator with the sheriff’s department in Grand Forks. He always kept his hand in the Guard. Most of the time he can be found flying in Jesse’s Hawk as crew chief.
Sam should be off fishing, playing golf. Instead he’s watching her approach behind his aviator sunglasses. As she stops in front of him, he rolls his tongue to shift the cud of Copenhagen tucked in his lower lip.
“I been meaning to ask,” Jesse starts casual, “you dip that stuff back in the crew chief bay, right? I mean, you the kinda guy who spits or swallows?”
“Skipper’s a sharp lady as usual this morning,” Sam says.
Thing about Sam is, he hasn’t quite made the transition to the modern all-volunteer army. Sam is culture-bound, hung up on gender. Like, he has a retro habit of opening doors for women. Jesse squares up, taps the insignia on her chest, and announces, “You see female written on these railroad tracks, Sergeant?”
“No, ma’am.”
“We’ve had this conversation before.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
As she sets off walking again, taking the lead, she’s not quite satisfied that Sam gets the point. She increases her tempo, putting a slight swing to her shoulders, and asks over her shoulder, “So what’d Toby do now?”
“Don’t have the details. Sounds like he got into a punchout with a couple born-agains.”
