Blowback

by Al Pessin

“You did what?” Bridget got out of bed and headed for the bathroom.

  “The intent was—”

  “You hired a hooker? A hooker! And foisted her on him without warning—a man in a fragile state of mind who has been living as a devout Muslim for months?”

  Harrington was silent for a moment, then continued. “The docs are calling it post-traumatic stress, not adding ‘disorder’ to the diagnosis, at least not yet. But no point in you coming down here.”

  Bridget put the phone on the vanity and turned on the speaker.

  “Unbelievable, Major. What the hell kind of operation are you running down there?”

  “Ma’am—”

  “I will be on the flight as scheduled. Try not to cause any more disasters in the meantime.” She ended the call and reached for her toothbrush.

  * * *

  Bridget never met Jazmin, but they would have agreed on one thing. The flight from D.C. to Guantanamo on a C-130 cargo plane was brutal. The four propeller engines issued a guttural growl for six interminable hours. The bare, windowless interior packed with supplies was uncomfortable and frigid.

  Bridget’s doctor had removed the White House bandage from her head and replaced it with a smaller one she could hide under her hair. Her ribs still hurt, but not as badly as they had on that awful day a week earlier.

  A crewman gave Bridget earplugs, a snack box, and a small bottle of water. She had a side-facing canvas-and-metal seat near the front, with the wall to lean on. A narrow pathway led through the crates and steel containers to a small garbage can fitted with a toilet seat near the back, more or less hidden from view by a green plastic shower curtain.

  Lucky for Bridget, unlike Jazmin, she had known what to expect. She wore long johns, top and bottom, wool socks, heavy khaki pants, and two layers of sweatshirt topped by a leather bomber jacket. Winter gloves were in her backpack. She’d fished her combat boots out of the back of her closet. Most of it would come off as soon as she hit the tropical heat of Gitmo.

  “More water, ma’am?” one of the crew members offered.

  “No, thanks.” Bridget preferred to pass out from dehydration, if it came to that, rather than have to sit on that garbage can.

  She tried to focus on the book she’d brought, but her mind kept wandering. Will was arriving at her apartment today, while she was away. Her visits to Bethesda had been brief. He was pretty drugged up most of the time. But she was looking forward to their delayed reunion tonight.

  Bridget also thought about Faraz. The full report she received before boarding prescribed a twelve-week program of decompression, healthy food, exercise, and psychiatric therapy, and that was just for starters. Meanwhile, what he knew and how he was feeling made him a security risk, so he would be kept where he was.

  Twelve weeks put him well outside the Blowback mission parameters. Liz reported that the sand cat “Karim” was establishing himself on jihadi websites. With luck, they’d need a warm body to play the part soon.

  Bridget had to make her own assessment of Faraz’s condition. He was her best hope for Blowback—or had been, until last night. If the mission was going to be delayed, or impossible, she would have to explain it to the secretary of defense.

  She knew she should maintain professional distance, but Bridget couldn’t help feeling a special responsibility for Faraz. She was the one who had sent him to Afghanistan. She was the one, in her Kylie Walinsky cover identity, who convinced him to do it, against his own better judgment. She was the one who let him believe he could go home when it was over.

  Bridget owed him a visit to say thank you and well done, and she had news that had to be delivered face-to-face.

  This would be a tough meeting, maybe nothing more than a long, wasted day. But she had to try.

  * * *

  Upon arrival at the base, Bridget was checked in and issued a temporary ID. The terminal had all the charm of a 1950s small-city airport with a dash of military austerity. The yellowed ceiling tiles and ancient check-in desks framed a scene of men and women, mostly in camouflage uniforms, carrying bags and equipment to and from large piles on the floor. Security was tight, as it would be at any base, but it seemed even stricter here, no doubt because of the detention center.

  Bridget made her escort wait so she could use a proper ladies’ room and shed some of her layers. Then a driver took them the short distance to the ferry. An assortment of cars and military trucks crowded the flat-top boat for the trip across the mouth of Guantanamo Bay to the main part of the base.

  She got out of the car and found a spot along the rail to breathe in the salt air. As a first-timer, Bridget was awed by the blue Caribbean, the broad bay, and the mountains to the north. Most of the passengers were military, but half a dozen civilians stood chatting not far from Bridget.

  “Who are they?” she asked the escort, a navy ensign, who looked to be about Faraz’s age.

  “Teachers for the base school, back from leave. They’re off a civilian flight that came in same time as you.”

  “Civilian flight?”

  “Yes, ma’am. Couple of times a week from Florida.”

  “Naval base, terrorist prison, civilian flights. Doesn’t seem to compute.”

  “Gitmo’s like that, ma’am.”

  Bridget felt the ferry slow down as a U.S. Navy destroyer and a Panamanian freighter crossed in front of it. She knew what that was about. The freighter would be heading for the Cuban port city in the upper part of the bay. Under the terms of the U.S. lease, American warships escorted civilian freighters through the naval base’s waters into and out of the port. It was one of the strangest maritime arrangements in the world, and it was rejected by Cuba’s post-revolution leaders, who were powerless to do anything about it.

  As the ferry pulled in, Bridget looked to the east. Somewhere down the coast was the prison that held hundreds of men who were the worst of the worst global terrorists, so the U.S. government said. It was hard to imagine as her escort narrated a brief tour during their drive.

  “Navy Exchange is there, ma’am.” He pointed to the right, where Bridget saw a supermarket, kiddie arcade, fast food restaurants, and an assortment of stores. “Good place to buy souvenirs.”

  Bridget saw some bad-taste T-shirts in the window of one shop: “Released from Gitmo.” “Attitude Adjustment Instructor.” That was a firm no. Well . . . if she had time, maybe she’d stop later to get something appropriately tasteless for her navy boyfriend.

  They came to an intersection with a U.S. Post Office, an American brand gas station, and an Irish pub.

  “Fun spot, if you’re staying overnight,” the ensign said. A sign outside read, “Best Burgers in Cuba,” and Bridget didn’t doubt it.

  “Thanks, but I’m planning to catch the C-130 on its return leg this afternoon.”

  They turned left and passed officers’ houses that might as well have been airlifted from the Northern Virginia suburbs near the Pentagon. It always amazed Bridget how overseas U.S. bases often looked more like American suburbs than military facilities.

  Before she could finish the thought, they came into the circular drive in front of the white, two-story hospital with a large red cross painted on its sloping roof.

  Major Harrington was waiting for her outside in the shade of an awning. He offered his usual firm handshake. “Good afternoon, Ms. Davenport. Smooth flight?”

  “Hello, Major. How’s our man?”

  “Not well. But better that we talk inside.” Harrington led Bridget to the door. She saw the rest of the major’s team waiting in the lobby—two navy doctors in uniform trousers and white coats, and a man in a suit whose haircut and demeanor said he was security or army intel.

  The blast of over-air-conditioned air was no cooler than their greetings.

  They led her to Dr. Ellison’s office, with its view of the bay and wall full of diplomas and certificates. He was the hospital’s chief psychiatrist, with the rank of navy commander. The doctor sat behind his dark, wood-grain desk and got
right to the point. “Lieutenant Abdallah is in a delicate state. We don’t recommend that you meet with him at this time. We made that clear in our report.”

  “I understand, doctor, but this is a high priority. My orders are to see him, make my own assessment, and report back to the secretary of defense.” It was a stretch, but not much of one.

  Dr. Ellison was thin and balding, with a complexion far too pale for a tropical deployment. He folded his bony fingers in front of him. “Yes. I’m sure your assessment will be valuable. Ours is that meeting with you could further set back his recovery and delay any timeline for his return to duty.”

  “You made that clear in your report, too. But this is our call.”

  “You know about the incident,” Ellison said.

  “Is that what you’re calling it? The incident?” The men were silent, avoiding her gaze.

  “That was a miscalculation,” Harrington said.

  “You gentlemen have quite an anodyne vocabulary—‘incident,’ ‘miscalculation.’ Monumental screwup is more like it. Is that part of your regular treatment plan, doctor?”

  “It was not our call,” he said in a tone that was half apology, half accusation.

  “Well, it is your hospital. I suggest you take a stronger role in what happens to your patients.”

  Ellison looked back at her, clearly struggling to slough off the insult. “Still,” he said, “the result is what it is. The major’s effort to speed the lieutenant’s recovery demonstrated that he cannot take on the stress of a mission at this time.”

  “We’ll see. I’ll make my report, after which it will be your job to fix this ASAP.”

  “Of course, we will do our best to help Lieutenant Abdallah recover from what he’s been through, but no promises, and no timelines.”

  Bridget got up to leave, but the men stayed where they were. “Let’s go,” she said.

  “I understand that the lieutenant has met you before in a cover identity,” Ellison said.

  “Yes, he knows me as Kylie Walinsky.”

  “And you’ll be keeping it that way?”

  “Yes.”

  “Well, this should be interesting.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “He has been asking to see ‘Kylie Walinsky.’ And he is insisting that we call him ‘Hamed.’ I gather that was his cover identity in Afghanistan.”

  “Yes. That wasn’t in your report.”

  “It is a new development. As of this morning, he would only answer to Hamed. And you’ll find him in his Afghan clothes.”

  Out of the corner of her eye, Bridget could see the major smiling as he stood. “So, Ms. Walinsky,” he said. “Shall we go see Hamed?”

  Bridget ignored him and spoke to the doctor. “Am I supposed to humor him, call him Hamed?”

  “No. It’s best if we don’t feed his neurosis. But he may retreat into it if he’s not happy with what you want to talk about, which I think seems likely. I warn you, he can become quite agitated. Rapid changes of mood are typical of his condition.”

  Bridget sighed.

  The doctor continued. “You see now why we oppose this visit. Would you like to reconsider?”

  “I came here to see for myself.”

  “Well, I can’t stop you, but I ask you to keep it short and be careful not to do anything that will delay his recovery.”

  * * *

  Upstairs, Bridget went into Faraz’s room alone and closed the door behind her.

  He stood at the foot of the bed, hands on hips, head cocked to the right. “Hello, Ms. Walinsky. Are you the one who can get me out of here?”

  The man Bridget saw seemed a lot older than the one she had met a year earlier at a training site in Mississippi. He had a scraggly mujahideen beard. His olive skin was darker from the sun of Afghanistan’s deserts and high mountains. And there was something else. His eyes, maybe. Certainly his attitude. In Mississippi, he had been about as green as they come, almost too green to be approved for the mission. He seemed to have acquired a decade of seasoning since then.

  “Not exactly.” Bridget hesitated, unsure what to call him. She decided to avoid names or ranks. “But I might be able to help. You’re looking good.”

  “Really? You like my outfit? My beard? Why does everyone here lie to me?”

  “I’m not lying. You look healthy, strong. That’s all I meant.”

  “Right.” His tone was hostile.

  “Let’s sit, shall we?”

  “Sure.”

  They sat, and Bridget took a notebook out of her purse. “So, tell me, how are you feeling?”

  “Greeeaaat.”

  To Bridget, the message was “stupid question.”

  Bridget’s Kylie Walinsky identity had known him by his real name, had been sympathetic to him, had become his friend. She would use that. “Listen, Faraz—”

  “Call me Hamed,” he said. His tone escalated from hostile to angry. “Do I look like Faraz? Is that who you want me to be?”

  Bridget thought maybe she should back off, change the subject, maybe leave the room. But if he was going to be able to get back to work in any reasonable time frame, she would have to push through the anger, and so would he.

  “That’s the wrong question,” she said. “The question is, who do you want to be?”

  “Now you sound like those so-called doctors.” He waved a hand to dismiss her and looked away. “You mindfu—” He stopped himself. “You messed with my mind before. Not again.”

  Bridget stuck with the “friend” approach. “Look, I know you’re not happy being held here. I wouldn’t be happy, either. The mission was even more difficult than we anticipated. You’ve been through a lot.”

  He looked back in her direction. “Yeah, thanks. You seem to be the only person who gets that.”

  “I’m sure that’s not true.”

  “I’m sure it is. The interrogation team seems to be intent on painting me as a traitor or a lunatic. And that major is the worst. Everything he says is a lie. He’s a real piece of work. You know what he did last night?”

  “Yes. I’m sorry about that.

  Faraz pursed his lips and looked away again.

  Bridget leaned forward to take him into her confidence. “I understand it’s frustrating to be here. But that attitude is not going to help you get out.”

  He had no response.

  “Being ‘Hamed’ is not going to help you, either.”

  He looked down at his Afghan clothes. Now he appeared more sad than angry. “Then what will?”

  “You need to work with the doctors, work through your issues. Find a way forward.”

  “I want to go home.”

  “So they told me, and I get that, too. But it can’t happen immediately.”

  “When, then? You told me I could go home when the mission was over.”

  “I believe I said I would try to make that happen. But you can understand there’s no way the major will let you go home in this state of mind.”

  Faraz raised his voice and leaned forward, forcing Bridget back. “What the hell state of mind do they expect me to be in? I’m sure you’ve read the details of what I went through.”

  “Yes, I did. You did an amazing job. We asked a lot of you, and you delivered.”

  “Then give me a medal and send me home. Isn’t that what’s supposed to happen? That’s the only way I can get my head together.”

  “I’d like to help you. I really would. But I’m afraid it will have to be the other way around. First come to terms with what happened, then maybe go home.” This was the opening she had been angling for. It seemed futile now, but she couldn’t go back to Washington without raising the subject. “Or maybe prep for another mission.”

  “Another mission?” Faraz pounded the table and jumped to his feet.

  The sudden display startled Bridget.

  “Sorry,” he said. “Sorry.” He looked down at the table and sat. Then he said slowly, “I just want to go home.”

  Bridget let a f
ew seconds of silence pass. That was a no on her first agenda item. She had one more thing to discuss with him. The doctors would not approve, but it could help convince Faraz to work through his problems. It could also cause the setback the psychiatrist had warned her about.

  “I have to tell you something that’s going to upset you. But it will help you understand some of the complexity of going home.”

  Faraz looked up at her.

  “I’m very sorry to tell you that your father passed away about a month ago.”

  He looked at her in disbelief. “My father?”

  “Yes. We understand he had a heart attack. They determined that he died almost instantly.”

  “Oh my God.” Faraz put his head in his hands. “My father . . . Allahum aghfir laha. Allahum taqwituh.” Faraz mumbled the Muslim blessing for the dead. O Allah, forgive him. O Allah, strengthen him.

  Faraz stood and staggered back, away from the table, knocking over his chair. Was it anger in his eyes, or fear? His back hit the wall and knocked over his prayer rug. He unrolled it with a gentle kick, knelt, put his forehead to the carpet in the general direction of Mecca, and moved his lips in silent prayer.

  Bridget looked away out of respect.

  Then he raised his head. “You did this.”

  She turned back toward him. “Faraz—”

  “Don’t call me Faraz! You killed Faraz. You told my parents I died. You said they would get over it. Now you’ve killed my father, too.” Faraz stood, his face turning red.

  Bridget stood to face him. “I know this is a shock, but you need to calm down.”

  Faraz glared at her across the room. “Don’t tell me to calm down! My father is dead. My mother . . . Oh, good God, my mother thinks she has lost both of us in the last year.” His voice cracked. “We need to make this right. I need to go home right now.”

  He moved toward her. She blocked his way.

  “Please, sit down. Let’s talk it through. Give yourself time to grieve, to understand the situation fully.”

  “The situation is that my father is dead, my mother needs me, and I’m getting the hell out of here right now.”

  Faraz pushed Bridget out of his way. Her back slammed into the wall, sending sharp pain through her ribs. She narrowly avoided hitting her injured head.