Man in the Middle

by Brian Haig

  I looked at Bian and she nodded. He continued, “I told the Agency you need to have compasses and a thousand dollars each in your pockets.” He said, “Show me,” and we did.

  He said, “The money is life insurance. The Fallujans are less bribable than most Iraqis, but you never know. If you run into a terrorist, the money won’t help; you’re just tipping your own killer. If it’s an ordinary citizen, on the other hand, five hundred bucks could buy a few minutes of silence. Start by insisting you’re a reporter—they all know that word—then press money into their hands as fast as you can.”

  “Has this ever worked?” Bian asked.

  He looked thoughtful, then said, “Not that I know of.” He laughed.

  He handed us each napkin-size American flags. “If you see American troops, wave these. It helps.” He said, “My people will handle the assault and apprehension. You’ll stay with the fire support element. Do you have a problem with that?”

  Ordinarily I don’t like being told what to do, but one should always make an effort to oblige his host. Also, on a more noble note, the assault element is definitely where the risk is. I said, “No problem.”

  “We’ve been told to take everybody alive, and that’s what we’ll attempt to do,” he continued. “No money-back guarantee, however. If they’re all asleep, we’ll have a good chance. If they have one or two guards, well . . . those we’ll have to take out. But if your man is a big shot—you wouldn’t be here if he weren’t, right?—he won’t be pulling guard duty. These Arabs are very hierarchical; leading by example to these people means getting more rest, eating better, and taking less risks than the foot soldiers.”

  He turned to Carl Smith and ordered, “Trunk of my car. Get their weapons, first aid kits, vests, and night-vision goggles.” He turned back to Bian and me. “The goggles and first aid kits are standard Army issue. I assume you know how to use them.” We did not contradict that, and he asked, “Are you comfortable with M16s?”

  We both nodded.

  “Good. The safeties remain on till I tell you otherwise. Once again, until I tell you. I don’t want either of you accidentally shooting my people . . . or yourselves.”

  Obviously, Bian and I had a few credibility issues. I said, “Carl mentioned safe houses inside Falluja—why don’t you show me their location on the map?”

  “Should it come to that, my people will lead you to one.”

  In other words, were Bian or I separated, incapacitated, or captured, Finder didn’t want us possessing the ability to expose his team. As I warned Bian, the team came first. And Drummond and Tran came second. This meant last.

  Time to exert the power of the purse, however, and I said, “Okay, now you listen to me, Mr. Finder. If Major Tran or I fail to make it out with our prisoner, no money. Understand? The prisoner, and both of us, alive—that’s the deal. Protect us, or this whole thing is a waste of your time.”

  He smiled and suggested, “I think your problem will be a little bigger than mine.”

  “Not if one of us survives. Do you understand what I’m telling you?”

  We stared at each other a moment.

  He said, “I guess I do.”

  “Point two. The ingress and assault are your show. Neither I nor Major Tran will interfere. But once our target is in custody—once we start the egress—new rules. Your advice will be welcome, but I’m in charge and you’ll obey my instructions.”

  “If they aren’t stupid or suicidal.”

  “They won’t be.”

  He looked at me a moment, unconvinced, then said, “Anything else?”

  “The major and I travel in and out together. Who’s transporting us?”

  “That would be me. I have a few more instructions to pass on, about rally points if we get split up, how we handle casualties, that sort of thing. I’ll explain it all during the drive.”

  So the ground rules were set. He spoke into his microphone and began instructing his team, all of whom began racing to their respective cars. I checked my watch: 1:30.

  In another thirty minutes, one way or another, this thing would be starting, or ending unhappily, and I would be traveling home in a bag.

  Bian squeezed my hand and whispered, “Thank you.” Smith handed us civilian bulletproof vests, weapons, six magazines of ammunition, flashlights, first aid kits, and night-vision goggles.

  Bian and I stripped off our abayas, slipped the vests over our heads, hooked the first aid kits to our belts, stuffed the side pockets of our battle dress trousers with spare magazines, and then redressed.

  I said to Bian, “What if this guy’s not there?”

  “Think optimistic.”

  “I am.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  The car was a red Toyota Corolla, and Bian and I sat, cheek to cheek, in the cramped backseat, Finder and the hulking muscle known as Ted in the front.

  Virgin soldiers and virgin girls on the verge of first action tend to respond alike. For the soldier, there is a natural anxiety and a corresponding adrenaline rush, which tends to evoke displays of juvenile bravado, telling silly jokes and laughing too emphatically at the punch lines. A girl tends to react by asking silly questions, like, “Do you really love me?” Apparently there were no virgins in this car—so there were no bad jokes—but you could cut the fear and anxiety with a knife.

  Now there was no traffic on the road, and Finder drove with his headlights off and his night-vision goggles on. This road was, for the most part, straight, and he drove briskly and confidently; with all the potholes, it made for a bumpy and uncomfortable ride.

  After another ten minutes he began pumping the brakes when, directly to our front, four lights flashed on and illuminated our car. He came to a complete stop, and sat perfectly still.

  About thirty meters to our front, I noted, two humvees blocked the middle of the road. A nervous voice in English yelled, “Driver . . . out of the car now. Hands up, and step out of the car.”

  Bian whispered for my benefit, “Nighttime roadblock. They’re edgy. Don’t even breathe.”

  I didn’t move, but I did breathe.

  Finder shifted the car into park, twisted around, and said to us, “Marines. I’ll handle it.” He opened his door, stepped out, and stood, frenetically windmilling his arms over his head.

  An American voice yelled, “Do you speak English?”

  Finder replied, “Isn’t that a stupid fucking question? Would I be obeying your directions otherwise? Name’s Finder. Get Captain Yuknis.”

  This was not the same as the old World War II drill where the Marine asks, “Who won the ’42 World Series?” and the Jap is betrayed by his cultural ignorance and blown to smithereens. Without authorized passwords, however, you have to improvise, and a little colloquial profanity is as American as apple pie. A long moment passed without a response before a voice yelled back, “He’s napping.”

  “Well, hell, boy, roust him. Tell him Finder’s here.”

  I could overhear young American voices debating whether to trifle their captain with this. This appeared to be part of a Marine infantry company—about 180 short-haired hardcocks—and in units such as this, a captain is the commander, and he might not tell God what to do, though God pays close attention when he speaks.

  After a moment, Finder yelled, “For Christsakes—would you hurry it up? Wake him up, or I’ll have your asses.”

  A moment later I observed a gentleman, tall and lanky, striding through the trail of lights. As he drew closer, I observed the profile of a helmet and fatigues, which were Marine style, and overheard him inform Finder, “Dammit, Eric, I was having my first wet dream since I got in country. Got a woodie the size of Mount Everest. This better be good.”

  “Mount Everest? A white boy? Yeah . . . bullshit.” Finder laughed. “Hey, better of been your wife in that dream.”

  “’Course it was.” He laughed also. “Both her sisters, too. Especially that big-tittied one, Elizabeth.”

  Bian whispered to me, “Pigs.”
<
br />   “Nonsense. Boy talk.”

  Somebody punched me in the ribs.

  Finder informed Captain Yuknis, “Got a job tonight. We’ll be coming out between four and five. Appreciate it if you’d pass word to your Marines.”

  Instead of replying, Captain Yuknis yelled to his men by the humvees, “Sergeant Goins, if you’d be so kind, extinguish those damn headlights before Abdullah the sniper ventilates me.”

  The lights went out, and Captain Yuknis stepped closer to the car and bent forward at the waist. I observed him observing us through the windows. To Finder, he said, “Who are the Iraqi ladies?”

  “You don’t want to know.”

  He was carrying a flashlight. He turned the beam on our faces and examined us more closely. To Finder, he commented, “The one on the left’s a looker. That other one . . . whoa, my boner just blew a flat.”

  They both laughed.

  I mentioned to Bian, “You’re right—pigs.”

  Now she laughed.

  Yuknis turned around and faced Finder. “About tonight . . . you might want to reconsider.”

  “Can’t. This one’s not cancelable. Not even postponable.”

  “Rethink that, Eric. Trust me on this.”

  This sounded like an ominous yet unclear warning and Finder did spend a moment thinking about that. “Give me an idea of what you’re talking about.”

  “I can’t talk about it, okay? I’ve already—”

  “Just give me an idea of the time, Chris.”

  “Early.”

  “How early? Help me out here.”

  Choosing his words carefully, Yuknis replied, “You didn’t get this from me. Okay? By four, I wouldn’t be inside Falluja.” After a moment he amended that. “By three-thirty I wouldn’t even want to try coming out of Falluja. Get my drift?” He then said, “It’s big.”

  Finder glanced in our direction, then said, “Allow us a moment alone. Please.”

  Captain Yuknis stepped back a few paces. Bian rolled down her window, Finder stuck his head inside, and in a low voice he asked us, “You understand what he’s saying?”

  “I got it,” I assured him. “An attack. The artillery barrage will start around three-thirty.”

  “Yeah. And by three the whole city will be surrounded and isolated. My guys have been reporting heavy military traffic all day. So now we know why, right? These Marines are royally pissed off about what happened to four contractors a few months back. I knew them. These were good guys. It really sucked what they did to them, and it’s payback time.”

  I looked at Bian. Without hesitating she said, “But not until three-thirty. One and a half hours from now. Plenty of time.”

  Finder regarded her a moment, wondering, I’m sure, if she had a death wish. He thought about it for a while, then said, “The risk factor on this just jumped through the ceiling. So I’m going to ask you—why do you need to do this?”

  Because we’re halfwits. But I said, “We can’t afford to lose this man.”

  “He’s that important?”

  “In a word, yes.”

  He looked at her. “We’re private contractors. But we’re also Americans, veterans, and we believe in what we do.” He leaned in closer until his face was inches from hers. “I’m going to ask once more, and I’d better hear the truth. This guy is that important?”

  “You can’t imagine.”

  He looked at me. I nodded.

  “Okay. At three, we’re booking, whether we have him or not. This will not be subject to negotiation. Understand? If you want to stay, that’s up to you.”

  He spun around, walked back to Captain Yuknis, and they held a quick whispered conversation, probably him telling Yuknis what a couple of idiots we were, which corresponded nicely with my own view.

  Finder jumped back into the car, saying not a word to us. To be fair, this was more than he bargained for, financially and figuratively. In truth, it was more than I bargained for—or more accurately, it was more than I’d been told I bargained for. No good deed goes unpunished.

  He jammed his night-vision goggles down onto his head and his foot down on the accelerator. As he drove, he spoke into his microphone and updated his team on this newest twist. I could overhear only his side of these conversations, and it did not sound like he got any guff from his team. Then he informed us, “Two cars are three minutes behind us. Yuknis promised to let them through without any delay or bullshit.”

  Ten minutes later, I observed through the moon’s illumination the looming silhouette of a city, presumably Falluja. I checked my watch—2:00 a.m.—and reminded Bian, “Come three, we’re out of here also. That’s an order, Major.”

  She patted my arm. A nice gesture, but it was not a reply.

  I recalled from Eric’s briefing that we were entering the city on the western side, known on local maps as the industrial section. And indeed, we soon were driving through narrow streets between large warehouses and desolate factories. It had the appearance of a forlorn ghost town—appearances can be deceiving, though, and here was a case in point; the intelligence estimates predicted between five to ten thousand armed beings living within these streets, the world’s largest gathering of terrorists. Added to this overall aura of spookiness, no lights were on, though here and there I caught glimpses of flickering illumination from candles or warming fires. From my CIA reports I recalled that both the electricity and the sewage had long been on the fritz.

  Well, in a few hours, illumination would be provided free of charge, courtesy of the USMC and United States Army Artillery Corps, and on the subject of sewage, the shit was going to fly.

  The technical term for this is indirect fire, because the ordnance flung by mortars and artillery arcs through the air, as distinct from ordinary bullets that fly straight from point A to point B. Artillerymen cannot actually observe their targets; they impersonally adjust a few knobs and levers to set the elevation and deflection of their tubes and barrels, and let loose.

  The result tends to be indiscriminate and amoral; a 155mm artillery round, for instance, has a killing radius of nearly a hundred yards, and it matters not whether within that circle are enemy soldiers or innocent infants—or gullible idiots sent by their CIA bosses.

  Eric turned around in his seat and warned us, “One minute to the dismount point.” I wondered if Phyllis had known about the timing of this attack before she dispatched us. You never know what she knows, which is part of her charm, and the vicarious thrill of working under her. I spent a satisfying moment dreaming I had my hands around her throat, she was gasping for breath, begging forgiveness, and . . .

  “Sean,” Bian interrupted. “I said it’s time to put on your goggles.”

  “Oh . . .” I pulled my night-vision goggles over my eyes and the world turned varying shades of green. I looked at Bian, who also wore her goggles. Combined with the veil and chador, she looked spooky. As did I, apparently, because she said, “Haven’t we met in a horror movie?”

  I laughed. “I’m the creature from the black lagoon. You’re from War of the Worlds.”

  Eric glanced back and said, “You two are scaring the shit out of me. Put your magazines in your weapons, but don’t chamber a round. And remember—they stay on safe.”

  He took a sharp left and turned in to a long alleyway between two large warehouses, turned off the ignition, and said, “Let’s go.”

  Bian and I followed him back down the same alleyway we had just come down to the street, which thankfully looked empty of pedestrians. Ted remained beside the car, and I realized his job was to guard our getaway transportation, which showed good attention to detail.

  We began to jog, and Eric seemed to know where he was going. Somebody better, because I didn’t have a clue. I had studied the city maps, but at night everything looks different, plus the jihadis had taken down the street signs, an indication they knew the Marines were coming and didn’t want to make it easy on them.

  We jogged about a quarter of a mile, which is not as easy as
you’d think in a long black robe that I kept tripping over. How do women survive? The streets were empty, but I had the odd sensation that we were being watched. Actually, I was sure we were being watched. But by whom?

  Eric suddenly made a sharp right turn into the entrance of a large, two-story warehouse. This was the back side of the building, and Eric had already informed us that the front side faced the target building. The door we entered was garagelike—presumably this was a loading dock—and we raced through a dark, cavernous empty space and then up a narrow metal stairway that led to the second floor.

  As we entered, I scanned the room through my goggles and noted, by a far window, two large green men walking toward us. Eric said to us, “My guys. Relax.”

  The two men drew closer, and Eric gave them our names and introduced them to us as Jack and Larry.

  We were all whispering, which was totally unnecessary. But I have noticed that in moments such as this, everybody lowers their voice a few octaves. Even badasses.

  We exchanged pleasantries, and the one named Larry, who had a distinctive Queens accent, said, “Follow me.”

  We did, walking over to a window that had been punched out, offering an unobstructed view of the street below and the target building across the street. On the floor directly beneath the window, I observed empty cans of pears, a large pile of balled-up candy wrappers, six empty soda bottles, and assorted other nutritional debris. Presumably this was the observation team Carl told me about, and from the evidence, they had been here all day, possibly the preceding night, and were now experiencing severe sugar overload.

  Larry seemed to be in charge and he pointed a finger out the window. Speaking to Eric, he said, “Right there—your target building.”