Authors: Richard Fox
“Why is the Caliban Program interested in this?” Ritter asked. “I thought you only did assassinations.” Using the true name for her organization broke Shannon’s poker face with a wince. Some words were too taboo to speak aloud.
“The program managers decided the missing Soldiers are a national intelligence priority, and now we’re going to find them.” Shannon had never explained to Ritter who the Program managers were. As the only conduit of information and instruction, she kept the rest of their team ignorant. Ritter speculated that the managers were whoever ran covert programs for the government. By federal law, only the CIA ran covert ops.
“And we’ve targeted Mukhtar before.” She pulled several photographs from the folder and gave them to Ritter.
They were surveillance photos of Mukhtar dated within the last weeks and months. Ritter couldn’t accept what he saw. The man in the photos had died years ago.
“No, this can’t be right,” Ritter whispered.
“It is. Mukhtar’s real name is Haider Hussein Mohammed, and he is alive and well,” she said.
“I saw him get into that car. We have video of the missile strike that destroyed the car. We saw his body in the morgue—”
“His very badly burned body,” she added.
“The DNA results came back positive…for a relative. Didn’t they?” Ritter shook his head as he pieced together Mukhtar’s/Haider’s resurrection.
“We attributed the discrepancy to tissue damage from the explosion.” She leaned forward and rested her head on a hand, her other hand tracing circles around Mukhtar’s/Haider’s face. “After Haider slipped away in the car we destroyed, we lost sight of him for a few minutes. In those few minutes, he loaded his family into the car and must have put someone else behind the wheel.
“Our working hypothesis is this: After his near-death experience, he left Pakistan with his second wife, the Iraqi wife. He set her and the kids up in Muthana, a neighborhood right outside Baghdad, and went back to his old contacts in Saudi Arabia to rejoin the jihad. With their money and his
wasta
as a Pakistan and Afghanistan veteran, he picked up a following in Syria and brought them to Iraq.
“We’ve kept tabs on the Iraqi wife, and surveillance took those photos at her home in Muthana. The country team didn’t know who they were looking at until they showed the photo to a source that knows Mukhtar. Mukhtar’s connection to the wife and Haider came to our attention, and we finally put two and two together. The kidnappings happened the next day.”
“I’m surprised you haven’t snatched his wife to trade for O’Neal and Brown,” Ritter said.
Shannon shook her head and rolled her eyes. “That course of action was proposed, but it wouldn’t work. Americans don’t take hostages…officially. If we did, we certainly wouldn’t have any leverage over their safety to get those two back. Mukhtar would just have to wait, and they’d be free in a few days.”
“They?”
“The wife and three children, ages two months to four years,” she said.
“How do I fit into all of this? There isn’t a lot I can do to help in the translation cell,” he said.
“We need you to rejoin the Program. If you agree, we’ll run you out of this facility and give you all the material and intelligence support you need to find Mukhtar. We can action any intelligence you gather faster than anyone else in this shit-hole country, and we’ll provide top cover from General Petraeus down to your brigade commander.” She smiled slightly.
“The Army doesn’t operate under Program rules,” he said. His fingertips ran over the captain rank patch on his chest. His last statement was an oversimplification. The Army functioned under the laws of land warfare and a host of field manuals and general orders to fight the war. During his time with Caliban, Ritter had never heard the words
illegal
or
immoral
used to stop an action.
“You won’t be in the Army—you’ll be one of us. That uniform you’re fond of becomes both cover for status and cover for action. Program directors are interested in results, not methods. Do what you need to do and remember the most important lesson of intelligence: Do. Not. Get. Caught.”
“When this is all over? What happens to me then?”
Shannon sat back and drummed her fingertips on the table. “You’re free to leave the Program whenever you choose, just like always.”
“I can stay ‘Captain’ Ritter?”
“Yes, it will be like all of this”—she twirled a finger in the air—“never happened.”
Ritter didn’t have to think long or hard about Shannon’s proposal. Two Soldiers were al-Qaeda’s prisoners—prisoners of a man who’d murdered a CIA officer, whose severed head Ritter had found at the bottom of a trash heap in Pakistan.
She would unshackle him from the limitations of his uniform and send him to whatever crucible led to Mukhtar and the missing Soldiers. And afterward…He’d made the transition back to the Army once before; he could do it again.
“I’m in,” he said. His heart ached at the words, as if his soul knew he’d just made a deal with the devil. Once we find them, Ritter swore, I’m done with Caliban.
Shannon’s face darkened as though disappointed. “Eric, nothing has changed with us. If you grow a conscience about what we do, it will impact the mission. I have a word for you. If you suspect you’ve come across another member of the Program, say, ‘Odyssey.’ The response is…” She ran the tip of her thumbnail over the top of her right eyebrow. Ritter repeated the gesture to show he understood.
“Two Soldiers are out there, hopefully alive, waiting for their brothers to find them. A guilty conscience is a small price to pay to bring them home. Now, what am I going to accomplish from brigade headquarters?” he asked.
“We’ve arranged for your transfer to”—she looked into her folder and pulled out Shelton’s army bio—“Captain Shelton’s patrol base. I understand you two have a history. Officially, you’re there to develop ties with the locals and use them to flush out Mukhtar. He knows where the Soldiers are, so we need him alive, which makes everything that much more complicated.”
Ritter thought for a moment. “Shannon, don’t piss on my leg and tell me it’s raining. Mukhtar will learn I’m out there pretty damn quick. And when he does, he’ll come for the only man he can blame for the death of his wife and child.”
Shannon lowered her head. “Yes, the real reason is quite different from the official one.”
“My presence will put Shelton and all his men at considerable risk.”
She nodded.
“I’m going to lie to my friend and hope Mukhtar takes the bait.”
She nodded again.
Ritter’s hands balled in anger at her gall. Part of him recoiled at the idea of returning to the Program and its Machiavellian ways. As an Army officer, his actions were just and honorable. It let him sleep at night. Yet the die was cast.
“There is a complication. Your brigade commander wants Shelton’s head over the kidnapping. The request to relieve him for cause is sitting on the division commander’s desk. We aren’t sure who’ll—”
“No, keep him in command. This won’t work if I have to groom someone else,” Ritter said.
“Easy enough. Be aware that we can’t protect him once this ends.”
“Keep him in command until this deployment ends. I owe him that much,” Ritter said. No matter how the search for the missing Soldiers ended, Shelton’s career was doomed. A reputation as the company commander who lost two Soldiers to an al-Qaeda kidnapping would always precede him. The insular and—in Ritter’s opinion—rather bitchy world of infantry branch politics wouldn’t let Shelton move beyond the rank of captain.
“Agreed.” Shannon pulled a small satellite phone from the briefcase and handed it to Ritter. “It’s encrypted. You know the code, and our numbers are there. We’ll be in touch.”
Ritter had missed the memorial ceremony. Only three people remained in the chapel: Chaplain Kroh, Lieutenant Davis, and Captain Joe Mattingly. The repurposed conference room focused on a battle cross; a rifle, bayonet fixed, thrust earthward into a sandbag; a helmet that perched from the rifle butt; three pairs of dog tags hanging from the grip; three pairs of boots arrayed in front of the battle cross; and a single framed picture of the deceased per set of boots.
Ritter watched from the back of the conference room as Davis spoke with Joe. His face was buried in his hands. Chaplain Kroh, in full vestments, sat apart from the two mourners with his head bowed in prayer.
Davis reached an arm around Joe and gave him a hug, then stood up. She flashed Ritter an angry look as she left, not saying a word.
Ritter approached Joe, learning the name of the other two casualties from their photos: King and Lee. Ritter sat next to Joe and stared at Jennifer’s photo. She was smiling, brimming with happiness and hope. An out-of-regulation ponytail draped over her shoulder.
Joe moved at a sloth’s pace as he took his face from his hands. He blinked hard. His eyes swam in a sea of antidepressants and spent tears.
“Hey, Eric. Thanks for coming.” He spoke like an exhausted drunk.
“I’m sorry I missed it,” Ritter said.
“This was never your…thing.” Joe drifted off, his lips giving form to a silent question. “Eric, I wanted to ask you something—something important—but now I can’t remember. These pills make it hard to do anything.” He leaned over and adopted a conspirator’s tone. “I said some things I shouldn’t have after Jennifer…”
Ritter nodded along.
“Oh yeah, you were right there with her.” A lucid part of Joe had fought its way to the surface. He shook his head from side to side and wiped a bit of drool from his mouth. Joe grabbed Ritter by the elbow, his fingers a vice. “Was it quick?” he asked.
“It was over in an instant. She didn’t feel a thing,” Ritter lied.
Joe let go of Ritter and nodded slowly as the drugs took hold again. “I’m going home tomorrow, take care of Jennifer and my little girl. Docs said the drugs will wear off during the flight if I don’t take more.” He pulled a cylinder of prescription pills from a cargo pocket and tried to read the label. “You think I should stop taking them?”
“Are those pills going to solve your problems?”
“No, guess not,” came Joe’s answer.
“You have to take care of your little girl. She needs her father, not what those pills do for you,” Ritter said. If the shrinks heard him now, he’d be up to his neck in trouble, but after his last Iraq deployment, he’d seen too many Soldiers turn into pill junkies.
“Eric, you promise me something?” Joe asked.
“Anything.”
“You find the fucker that did this, and you kill him.”
“I’ll do it, for you and for her. Come on. Let’s get back to our place. You need some sleep.” Ritter helped his friend to his feet and led him away.
Chaplain Kroh remained, still in prayer.
These weren’t the best days for the town of Rasheed. The former hub of livestock and produce trading supported several stores and a decent falafel restaurant. The wedding hall attracted couples from as far away as Mahmudiyah and Al Anbar Province. Now, only the falafel restaurant remained open—and only because al-Qaeda demanded it. The owner, an Egyptian who’d arrived decades ago, griped that not only did al-Qaeda’s presence in the town keep everyone out, but they didn’t even pay for the food they took.
Al-Qaeda taxed all business in the city, taxes the locals could tolerate. But the ban on the sale of cigarettes was intolerable. Men still smoked in secret, but the price for a pack of Miami cigarettes had quadrupled in recent months.
Abu Ahmet leaned against the straw brick wall and tin roof of a ramshackle mechanic’s shop. A creeping stain of spilled oil haloed the building. Abu Ahmet felt the cut-down AK-47 hidden under his calf-length
dishdasha
for the umpteenth time. What was taking that little brat so long?
The Qarghuli tribal council had approved the vendetta against Hamsa with little debate and a unanimous decision. Hamsa’s death would restore Abu Ahmet’s honor and prevent his daughter’s honor killing. Some—Abdullah most of all—had quietly lobbied against the vendetta. There was too much to lose by angering al-Qaeda. Abu Ahmet was enraged when he heard this, but Theeb and Khalil wrestled him to the floor and held him down until his anger passed. He’d have his revenge for his daughter, Safaa.
The car full of al-Qaeda men had arrived at the restaurant half an hour ago. The falafel chef, his second cousin by marriage, sent him a text that Hamsa was there. Abu Ahmet snuck into the town with the compact AK-47 and a spare magazine. They had cost him the last of his cash, but killing Hamsa would be worth every dinar.
A boy, not past ten years old, raced around the corner. “Abu Ahmet, they’re leaving!” he said.
“Go tell the Lebanese man you saw someone smoking and point to this building,” Abu Ahmet said.
The boy held out a grubby hand. Abu Ahmet plucked a few hundred dinars from his breast pocket and handed them to him. The boy flashed a toothy grin and ran back the way he had come.
Abu Ahmet lit a cigarette and exhaled the smoke beyond the wall’s edge. He pulled the AK-47 from beneath his robe and clicked the safety off. He inhaled faster and deeper in excitement; the rapid nicotine intake made his blood hum in his veins. This would feel so good.
He heard someone running toward him and raised the rifle to his shoulder. He stroked the trigger with his forefinger then applied the slightest bit of pressure…Any second now.
A man raced around the corner and halted when he looked down the business end of Abu Ahmet’s AK-47. It wasn’t Hamsa as Abu Ahmet had hoped and planned; it was Charba. Abu Ahmet shot him anyway. The bullet pierced his skull over the right eye and burst out the back of his skull. A new cowlick of hair marked the exit wound. Charba crumpled to the ground without a sound.
Abu Ahmet spat the cigarette onto the body and switched his weapon to full auto. He emptied the rest of the magazine into Charba. The bullets shook the body like a grand mal seizure. Chunks of flesh ripped away as bullets ricocheted off bone or passed through, leaving bloody craters in their wake.
The magazine emptied in seconds. The new silence was pregnant with panic as the villagers gawked at the murder. Abu Ahmet reloaded his weapon and stepped over the corpse. The other two al-Qaeda men stood behind the open doors of their car; one had a cell phone to his ear; the other fumbled with an MP5. Abu Ahmet sent a burst through the car door, the thin steel no match for 7.62mm bullets. He killed the man with the MP5 instantly.
The man with the cell phone turned to run. He managed three steps before Abu Ahmet stitched bullets up his spine. Abu Ahmet calmly walked to the car and tossed the MP5 onto the passenger seat. Seeing keys still in the ignition, Abu Ahmet slipped behind the driver’s seat and drove away. He nodded to the falafel proprietor, who stood slack-jawed in the doorway.
He picked up a pale Theeb at the edge of town.
“Allah preserve us! You were only supposed to kill Hamsa!” Theeb cried, his voice reedy with panic.
Abu Ahmet shrugged. “Like my new car?”
Patrol Base Dragon was American skin grafted onto Iraqi bones. Before the war, the country house had been owned by a wealthy Sunni family who farmed the nearby fields but earned most of their money smuggling drugs and alcohol from Syria into Baghdad. The United States Army decided to occupy the building by force during a push to stop the flow of car bombs and weapons in Baghdad; they agreed to compensate the Sunni family most handsomely. Part of the agreement was that any improvements the army made to the home were to be left behind if and/or when the Army no longer occupied the building.
No one was sure whether the owners wanted to keep the surrounding concrete block barriers, but there were plenty of improvements. Electrical wiring, supplied by the Army Corps of Engineers and guaranteed not to burn out after a week’s use like the locally purchased wire, ran from building to building, infiltrating the walls through drilled-out mouse holes. Track lighting ran along the exterior but was never turned on, denying the local insurgent mortar teams an easy target. A burn pit, dug by a backhoe, was far enough away from the living areas to avoid sending the smell of burning food and plastic wafting through the entire camp no more than once a day. A helicopter landing zone, made of interlinked steel plates, was sectioned off from the rest of the base with an interior T-wall barrier, which was meant to keep the blown dust from a helicopter landing confined to the landing zone.
As for the homes inside the patrol base, they had been built with every corner cut. The feeble concrete sidewalks crumbled with every application of water. Gaps in the doorframes and window frames grew as the house settled farther into the unstable soil. Dragon Soldiers sprayed quick-hardening foam into the cracks to keep the dust and heat out and the precious air conditioning in. The foam made the building look like it was festering from a thousand wounds. Masonry work was shoddy and uneven, and sloppy mortar ran between bricks—anathema to anyone who took pride in work done by hand.
Speculation was rampant as to why the home was so large yet so poorly built. Theories ranged from the owner overbilling and underbuilding the construction as some sort of money-laundering scheme, to the home being built in a hurry to house a second or third wife, who had a fit of jealousy that one of the other wives had a bigger place to live. One of the interpreters offered up the best hypothesis; the owner’s relatives, who may or may not have been civil engineers, had built the home to keep the funds in the tribe. Complaints about the workmanship had been impossible; such talk might lead to bad blood.
The ad hoc hygiene area was a row of sinks and mirrors perched atop a plywood stand. One of the company’s Soldiers was a trained carpenter, a skill set the company exploited without qualm. Within months, the patrol base had new shower facilities, visitors’ quarters, toilets, and the hygiene area. The showers burned down after a direct hit from a mortar but were rebuilt with a protective layer of sandbags.
There was no way to heat water for anything but cooking. Thankfully, the Iraqi weather provided enough heat for a lukewarm shower on most days.
Nesbitt brushed his teeth at the hygiene station, wearing nothing but a towel around his waist. Channing sat beside him, liberally applying powder to his abused feet. Nesbitt glanced at Channing and then increased the tempo of his brushing with such fury that his towel fell off. Channing looked at the fallen towel, then up at Nesbitt’s quivering backside.
“God fucking damn it, Nesbitt!” Channing turned away in disgust as Nesbitt laughed through a mouthful of toothpaste.
“Convoy coming in!” yelled the Soldier in the driver well of the antiquated M113 blocking the only entrance to the patrol base. The M113’s engine roared to life, then pulled ahead. Nesbitt cursed and retrieved his towel before disappearing behind the hygiene station.
Four gun-truck Humvees and two cargo Humvees drove in and scattered to their assigned parking spots.
“He get you again?” Kilo said as he and Porter approached.
“I swear I’ve seen that asshole’s asshole more times than I’ve seen his mamma’s tits!” Furious laughter from Nesbitt answered Channing’s insult.
Kilo stepped onto the station and filled an aluminum canteen cup with water. He watched as Captain Ritter helped unload mail sacks and laundry bags.
“It’s happening,” Kilo said.
“What is? Who’s that captain?” Channing asked.
“Captain Shelton’s getting relieved, and that’s our new CO,” Kilo said. Rumors had circulated during the weeks since the kidnapping. A visit from the inspector general’s office a few days ago had convinced most of the company that Captain Shelton would pass the guidon of command to one of the many captains trapped in the purgatory of battalion staff.
“I don’t think so. That’s an intel guy,” Porter said as he lathered his face with shaving cream. They watched as Ritter pulled a duffel bag from the cargo Humvee and dropped it next to a black trunk.
“Looks like he’s here to stay,” Channing said.
“That goddamn leg doesn’t even have a ranger tab. How the hell can he command this company?” Nesbitt, now wearing pants, spat a wad of chewing tobacco on the ground.
“That ‘goddamn leg’ has more kills than you do,” Porter said as he ran a disposable razor down his cheek.
“How do you know, smart guy?” Nesbitt said.
“That’s the guy Captain Shelton had to pull kicking and screaming from that blown-up Humvee back at the power plant. Turns out he, Sergeant First Class Young, and the CO were in the same company in their last tour. Young said the guy zapped fifteen Jaish al-Mahdi
asswipes in Najaf back in two thousand four.” Porter knocked the shaving cream from the razor into the stainless steel basin.
“So what’s he doing out here?” Nesbitt asked, cowed by the new information.
“Why don’t you go ask him?” Kilo said.
“I’m just a specialist. Let the NCOs deal with the officers,” Nesbitt said.
Ritter hefted his full rucksack onto his back and grabbed his duffel bag by the two short handles. He packed everything he’d brought to, and accumulated in, Iraq. There was no time limit on his assignment with Dragon Company, and it was best not to leave anything behind. He tottered a few steps before Sergeant Young, trailed by a sheepish Soldier, flagged him down.
“Sir! Damn good to see you again.” Young clasped Ritter on the shoulder. Ritter flopped his gear back to the ground so he could shake Young’s hand.
“Shelton let you keep the moustache. I’m impressed,” Ritter said.
“Only so long as we’re in the field. Saddam couldn’t grow something this masculine if he tried. It helps keep the locals in line,” Young added with a wink.
“I hear you’re the acting first sergeant,” Ritter said.
“That’s right. As such, I have a few rules to go over with you concerning the good order and discipline of this patrol base. It is a matter of policy that I share this with you. I know you’re no idiot, but some visitors—all of them from the brigade staff, I might add—cannot grasp the intuitive.
“Sir, there are two things we need to get straight so that our relationship will be tip-top. First”—he pointed to several wooden stalls—“those are the shitters. No plumbing out here for that, so we burn our shit.” He pointed to several tubes sticking from the ground; water bottles with the bases cut off were taped to the ends of the tubes. “Those are the pissers. Don’t shit in the pisser and don’t piss in the shitter.
Bonne?
”
“I can manage that,” Ritter said.
“Now, as you may have noticed, we don’t have the amenities of Camp Victory. Would you humor me and describe a field shower?” Young asked.
“You get in the shower, turn the water on until you’re wet, then turn the water off. Soap up, then turn the water back on to rinse off,” Ritter answered.
“Thank you, sir. Field showers are all we can manage out here. We get a few shower queens, who think this place is the damn Sheraton, and we’re all using baby wipes for showers,” Young said.
“I have a room for you. Do follow me, and I’ll show it to you.” Young pointed beyond the main building of the patrol base.
Ritter reached for his bag. “No, no, no, sir. Private Thomas will take all your gear for you. Private Thomas here pissed hot for marijuana two days before we deployed to this festering shit of a country, and he will perform every shit detail I can think of until this deployment ends.” Private Thomas nodded furiously and picked up Ritter’s rucksack and duffel bag.
They walked past the main building as Young gave the nickel tour, identifying the mess hall, helicopter landing zone, and an outdoor gym next to a fighting pit. As small as the base was, pointing out the landmarks was as unnecessary as providing a detailed map of an ant farm.
Young stopped next to a seashell-shaped gouge in the perimeter T-wall. “Sir, this is a present from Abu Five Rounds. Abu Five Rounds is the local mortar man, and he visits us every week or so. We call him Abu Five Rounds because he always launches five mortar rounds, in case you didn’t figure that out.” There were a dozen mortar tail fins hanging from the gutter of the main house, like ornaments on Death’s Christmas tree. Young pointed out the bomb shelters, upside-down, U-shaped concrete blocks dotting the base, all covered in a layer of sandbags.