by Al Pessin
“What happened?” she shouted.
“IED,” came the response. Improvised Explosive Device, the military’s designation for a roadside bomb.
Memories flashed of her own IED experience in Afghanistan years ago, and of the carnage at Bethesda. She put her right hand on her stomach, losing her appetite for kebabs.
That’s when she saw Carter. He came from the back of the convoy covered with blood and dirt. He was helping to carry a casualty onto a gurney. Bridget took off at a run.
She reached Carter in a few seconds, as he relinquished his hold on the injured man. Bridget grabbed his arm.
“Oh my God, Carter!” She raised her voice, “Hey, we need another litter over here!”
“No, Bridget. It’s okay. It’s not my blood. It’s his.” Carter gestured toward the man now being rushed away by the medics.
“Oh, thank God,” Bridget said. She embraced Carter, ignoring the blood.
* * *
Will’s new office was some distance away, and his bad leg made him a slow walker. He’d come out to see what the emergency was and arrived within sight of the convoy just in time to see Bridget holding Carter.
He stopped and stared, at first not sure of what he was seeing. It was only a brief hug, but when it ended, she held Carter’s arm as they walked toward the aid station. Will felt the heat rise on his face. He gripped his cane hard, and he felt as if everyone was staring at him.
His body slumped. He turned and limped back toward his office. People still running toward the convoy made way for the cripple.
Will thought about little else all afternoon. He considered going to see Bridget, but he was too angry. He was sure he was right about her and Carter. There was no choice but to accept the new reality of his injured leg, but he’d be damned if he was going to accept this. Damn her. Damn Carter. Damn this life.
* * *
Hours later, Will came upon Carter sitting with Castillo and some of his Spotlight team members in the D-FAC.
“I guess that wasn’t your blood, then,” Will said, standing at their table.
Carter’s eyebrows came together. “No, Commander. It was not. And thankfully, my colleague is going to be all right.”
“And what about Bridget? Is she going to be all right, too?”
“Excuse me?”
“I saw you two together when the convoy came in.”
“She was kind enough to come over and express concern for me, and she was relieved that it was, as you noted, not my blood.”
“Very pleased, from what I could tell.”
Carter’s colleagues chuckled, but he gave them a look that shut them up.
Will mumbled, “Son of a bitch.”
“Pardon me?”
Will raised his voice. “I said you’re a son of a fucking bitch.”
“Commander, normally we could step outside to determine that, but in your condition . . . ”
Will dropped his cane and dove at Carter, getting in the first punch to the big man’s jaw. Still in his chair, Carter threw Will off, and he fell to the wooden floor next to his cane. Carter stood and held out an open palm toward the Spotlight guys. They stayed where they were, but he couldn’t prevent them from whooping and hollering.
Two MPs were moving fast, zigzagging between tables in their direction.
Carter loomed over Will. “Let’s not, shall we?”
“We will one day,” Will said. Carter reached down to help Will stand, but he slapped his hand away. The MPs arrived, and each of them grabbed one of Will’s arms.
“Let us help you, sir,” one of them said.
Will tried to shake them off, but they held firm. He surrendered, putting his weight on them so he could get to his feet. Carter picked up Will’s cane and handed it to the MP.
“Now, let’s get you out of here, Commander,” the MP said.
Will limped away, still held between the MPs, finally shaking them off at the exit door.
He grabbed his cane, walked two steps, and fell. His leg hurt like hell. The MPs picked him up again and half carried him to the aid station.
* * *
After spending the night in the clinic on some serious pain meds, Will was summoned to the Joint Special Ops command HQ, where an army brigadier general named Bigelow made him wait an hour on a metal folding chair in a tiny hallway. Bigelow worked for the three-star who commanded Special Ops by all services throughout Iraq.
Finally ushered into the office, Will found Bigelow standing behind his desk, feet apart, hands on hips. Will stood at attention as best he could, staring straight ahead at the star on Bigelow’s chest.
The general leaned forward over the desk and looked at Will’s rank insignia. “I was just checking.”
“Sir?”
“I couldn’t believe that a navy commander would start a brawl in the D-FAC. What the hell is your problem?”
“I apologize, sir. I—”
“You’re damned right you apologize, and you will apologize to the man you attacked, and the D-FAC boss, and me and anybody else I tell you to.”
“Yes, sir.”
Bigelow stood up straight, framed by columns on either side with wood paneling behind, in what must have once been the office of one of Saddam’s cronies. His salt-and-pepper hair was trimmed short. A Ranger tab on the left arm of his camo jacket identified him as one of the army’s elite, definitely not someone to be messed with.
“Is this going to be a problem going forward?”
“No, sir. It was a personal matter. I lost my composure. It won’t happen again.” Will still stood at attention, hand on cane.
“Commander, that better be your solemn promise. One more incident—of any kind—and you will spend the rest of your tour behind bars, followed by a navy brig back home. And that promotion you just got will be long gone.”
“Yes, sir. I understand. You have my word.”
“You’re damn lucky the Spotlight guy didn’t want to make an issue of it. I was afraid you’d have to be on the next plane out of here. We can’t afford to lose you, and we can’t afford any more crap like this. Do I make myself clear?”
“Yes, sir.”
“How’s the leg?”
“Better than it’s been in weeks, with the extra meds they gave me last night.”
“Good. Now, get back to work. And I strongly urge you not to end up back here on any disciplinary matter.”
“Yes, sir.”
Chapter Forty-five
There were no more armed guards watching Faraz, but he felt Nazim’s eyes on him all the time. The man worked him hard, ordering him to do extra runs with heavy packs—simulating the weight of bombs. Whenever Faraz didn’t understand an order, he got a smack in the back of the head. More memories of Afghanistan, when he was a fresh terrorist recruit.
After several days of such treatment, Faraz confronted his tormentor. “I am not your prisoner anymore,” he shouted in halting Arabic.
Nazim exploded with a tirade Faraz didn’t fully understand.
Faraz responded with a screed of his own in Pashto. Nazim hit Faraz in the chest with both hands, knocking him down, and spat on him. Then he turned his back and walked away, daring Faraz to attack him.
The next day, al-Souri called Faraz into his office. “Nazim is not happy with you.”
“He cannot accept that I am a fighter.”
“I have spoken to him, but you must also show him the respect he deserves.”
“Yes, Qomandan.”
“You will go on the supply run to the market today.”
“Nazim will not want it.”
“I have spoken to him.”
“Thank you, Qomandan.”
* * *
They took two vehicles, an SUV and a pickup truck, with three men in each. The truck had the lead. Faraz and Nazim were in the SUV with a fighter named Khalil driving. Nazim still refused to let Faraz carry a weapon.
They were heading northeast toward open desert. Nazim must know a market town Faraz
hadn’t been to. Or maybe he was taking Faraz to a remote area to kill him. Still, Faraz was happy about the direction they were going, and that the vehicles kicked up large clouds of dust as they sped along the road.
Faraz was alone in the back seat. He put his arm out the open window and let it hang down toward the road. He waved it casually back and forth, like a pendulum. To anyone in the other vehicle who saw him, it would look like a silly, childish move.
They drove for about ten minutes, and Faraz’s arm got tired from repeating his signal over and over. He was about to give up when an explosion flipped the pickup truck in front of them onto its side.
Khalil barely managed to avoid the wreck, turning the SUV’s wheel and sending it off the road. They hit a hole and bounced hard. The engine died. Khalil banged his head on the ceiling and passed out.
Faraz held onto the front seat and prayed. Through the windshield, he saw a dozen militiamen running down a dune, firing AKs as they went, strafing the pickup truck but not the SUV.
Nice job.
Nazim threw the door open. “Out! Out!” he shouted. Faraz followed him, and they crouched behind the engine for maximum cover.
Faraz looked around the vehicle. “Careful!” Nazim pulled him back. But Faraz had seen what he needed to see. Captain Anthony was looking back at him through field glasses from the top of the hill.
“Come, Hamed!” Nazim ordered. “We go to the pickup!” He started to pull Faraz toward the other vehicle, where the men were trying to climb out through a window.
“No!” Faraz shouted, tackling Nazim as a flying 40-milimeter grenade obliterated the truck and its occupants.
Faraz and Nazim lay flat and covered their heads against the debris. Faraz saw the shock on Nazim’s face. He grabbed Khalil’s AK from the front seat and went to the edge of the pickup to fire toward the militiamen. Several of the them went down, perhaps a bit too fast. Faraz ducked back behind the engine as a hail of gunfire went high and wide.
Nazim moved to the spot Faraz had used and fired. Watching from under the vehicle, Faraz saw two militiamen fall. He couldn’t be sure whether they had actually been hit.
Then the militiamen’s return fire came again, closer this time. Faraz pressed his body to the ground.
“Aaach!” Nazim yelled. He fell backward, wounded on his left arm, nearly landing on Faraz.
“Commander, stay down,” Faraz said. His Arabic had improved enough that he knew basic commands, and he’d been rehearsing this scene in his mind since his last words with Captain Anthony at the outpost.
Faraz grabbed the AK and took his place at the firing position. He fired high and waved his weapon left and right.
The militiamen turned and ran back up the hill, leaving their “casualties” behind.
“We must go,” Faraz said. “They are breaking off their attack. Can you get in?”
“Of course. It is nothing.”
Faraz helped Nazim up and boosted him into the back seat of the SUV, then went to the other side, opened the door, and pushed the still-unconscious driver to the middle seat. Blood from Khalil’s head dripped down the window. Faraz got in and praised Allah when the vehicle started.
He also praised Allah that the attack had gone better than he expected. Not only had he come under fire and performed well, he had saved Nazim’s life. If this didn’t convince him of “Hamed’s” commitment to jihad, nothing would.
Faraz turned the wheel hard and hit the gas, skidding around into the direction he wanted. He got the vehicle back up onto the road, skirted the burning pickup truck, and sped back toward camp.
* * *
The guards opened the gate to let Faraz’s vehicle slip through and skid to a stop. A fighter ran up to them. “Where is the other vehicle?”
Nazim got down from the SUV, holding his injured left arm with his right hand. “We were hit. They are gone. Martyrs. Take care of Khalil.” Nazim went directly into the headquarters building, leaving Faraz to help the others with Khalil.
As they approached the clinic, Faraz noticed two SUVs he didn’t recognize parked near the back of the camp. One of them had blackout windows and a phone antenna on top. Security men he also didn’t know guarded the SUVs.
Once Khalil was settled in the clinic, Faraz walked to one of the outdoor sinks to wash, then went to the headquarters.
As he approached, al-Souri emerged with two men. One appeared to be in his fifties, portly and wearing a Western-style suit coat. The other was much younger and stayed a step behind. Nazim came out after them and waited by the door. Al-Souri was speaking and gesturing. When the older man spoke, al-Souri made a show of agreeing.
“It is unfortunate,” Faraz heard al-Souri say. “Three martyrs. But many more of the traitors were killed.”
Faraz had rarely seen the Qomandan act so solicitously toward anyone.
Al-Souri and the others walked past Faraz like he didn’t exist. At the vehicles, al-Souri made a half bow and kissed his visitor on both cheeks. He waved as they drove away.
Nazim came up to Faraz from behind. “Khalil is in the clinic?”
“Yes.”
Nazim looked Faraz up and down. “You did well today,” he said, seeming to be rather unhappy to have to say it.
“Who was with the commander?”
Nazim snorted with evident disdain. “They call him al-Malik.” The king.
Before Faraz could ask anything more, Nazim walked on toward the clinic. Faraz watched the gate close behind the visitors’ vehicles.
* * *
After their near-death experience, Nazim seemed more inclined to accept Faraz as a member of the team.
“You will come on the tax run,” Nazim said. “Bring your sleeping pad.”
Nazim’s injured arm was bandaged and lashed to his body. Faraz could see he was eager to continue operations as usual, not to show any weakness in front of his men.
The “tax run” provided some income for al-Souri. Nazim was good at convincing local merchants to support the jihad, particularly with Faraz and three other fighters to back him up. They made several stops on the first day, then had dinner courtesy of a village elder.
In the evening, the visiting fighters bedded down for the night in a small empty house, and Nazim regaled them with war stories by the light of a small kerosene lantern. Faraz and the other men made a point of being duly impressed.
“Those are great victories,” Faraz said. “But what of the future? When will we strike the infidels again?” He still spoke haltingly, but his Arabic was starting to flow.
“Do not worry, Hamed, our leader has plans. The world will soon know that November was not our last operation.”
“Tell us, Nazim,” one of the fighters begged. “A great blow to America, perhaps?”
Faraz was grateful for the unwitting help with the interrogation. The men leaned in to hear the answer.
Nazim held up a hand. “I cannot tell you much, my brothers. But yes, America will feel our wrath. You saw our visitor yesterday?”
The men nodded.
“You saw his vehicle, smelled his cigars and his whiskey? Maybe you smelled his women, too.” Nazim spat on the floor.
The men gave an awkward laugh.
“You called him al-Malik,” Faraz said.
“Ha! We should call him al-Mehfaza.” The Wallet.
The men laughed again.
“He is a messenger named Assali, nothing more.” Nazim sighed. “He gives us scraps from the wallets of his masters, but we must accept him. We need a king’s wallet for what the commander has planned. I assure you, my brothers, the infidels will pay a much higher price.”
“Tell us,” one of the men urged.
Nazim paused for dramatic effect. “My brothers, what do you think the Americans value above all—except money, of course?”
“Above money?” Faraz asked in mock bewilderment. “I do not know.” The men laughed again, and turned to Nazim for the answer.
Nazim scanned their faces, clearly reveli
ng in his superior understanding of the enemy and his inside knowledge of the strategy to defeat it.
The arrogance disgusted Faraz, even as he used it to get what he needed. “Please, Commander, do not keep us waiting any longer.”
Nazim smiled. “Americans love their money, but they will spend it on one thing without end. They will buy only the best, provide only the highest quality, ensure only the finest outcome for one thing.”
“Their women?” one of the fighters guessed.
“No, my brother. Not their women.”
“What, then?” Faraz asked. He was not going to let this opportunity pass.
Nazim surveyed the fighters in the half-light. “My brothers, our goal is to make the cost of the infidel occupation so high that they leave our lands. We have killed their soldiers. We have attacked their cities. We have damaged their oil supply and their banking system. And still they persist.”
“What is it?” Faraz asked. “What is their weak point?”
Nazim smiled.
“Their children.”
He let the words hang in the stale air.
Faraz started sweating. He was glad it was dark, because he was sure his face was turning red.
“Their children?” he asked. His voice revealed his shock. He cleared his throat. “How will we attack their children?”
“That I cannot tell you, but be assured the scope will be broad. The Americans are soft. They do not protect their families. The opportunities are many. The three targets of November were nothing compared to what is to come.”
What could Nazim be talking about? Schools? Universities? Day-care centers?
“But does the Noble Koran allow such a thing?” Faraz knew the answer to his question—at least, the answer al-Souri would provide—but he needed to keep Nazim talking.
“Of course it does. They teach blasphemy and hatred of Islam from kindergarten to universities. They pervert Allah’s teaching, make whores of their women. Most important, these attacks will break the infidels’ will to fight us. They must see that we will stop at nothing to bring Allah’s light to the world.”