Man in the middle sd-6

by Brian Haig

  Partly true, and in that statement Phyllis revealed a little more of her thinking, about her intentions and about my favorite subject: me.

  What wasn't true was her comforting sentiment about easing back into the profession of arms. Perhaps Sean Drummond had once been a lean, mean killing machine, death from the skies, one hundred and eighty pounds of twisted steel and sex appeal. The new Drummond had packed on a few pounds, a new attitude, and had become a creature of the courtroom, with all that implies.

  I couldn't recall the last time I was on a firing range, nor had I run more than ten miles in years. As battlefield veterans will tell you, the key to survival is speed-depending on the day you're having, either toward the enemy or away. I recalled the admonition the Army drills into the thick skulls of all new recruits: "There are two kinds of soldiers on the battlefield-the quick and the dead."

  Well, I was quick with my tongue, but my footwork and my survival instincts could stand a little work. Maybe a lot of work.

  Bian, who required a moment to absorb this new and interesting facet of my professional background, eventually said, "Oh."

  "So you see," Phyllis continued, "he has the ideal resume."

  Without the slightest concession of inferiority, Bian replied, "It's irrelevant. I'm offering; he's not."

  For a moment nobody said anything.

  What could I say? I knew what Phyllis was doing-pitting me against Bian, exploiting my overblown chauvinist instincts, and at the same time engaging in a little emotional blackmail. Phyllis is a world-class manipulator, and usually knows exactly how to push my buttons-but not this time. If Bian wanted a piece of this, she was a big girl. Her life, her call. Welcome to the newly liberated world; equality between the sexes means an equal risk of coming home in a pine box.

  I was curious, though, and I looked at Bian, then at Phyllis, and said, "What exactly is it that you intend?"

  "I thought that was obvious," Phyllis replied. "Get our hands on the low-hanging fruit, Mr. bin Pacha." She added, "What to do about Charabi is trickier. But he's not going anywhere, whereas bin Pacha could disappear at any moment." She looked at me and said, "Charabi will have to wait."

  I couldn't believe what I just heard. "We seem to have a different definition of low-hanging fruit. Ali bin Pacha is in Falluja."

  "Yes. I recall reading that from the message."

  "Maybe you don't read the newspapers. The Army declared it a no-man's-land six months ago and pulled everybody out. It's a jihadist country club."

  "That's what our assessments say. A most unpleasant place."

  "Unpleasant? This is the same city where the four contractors were killed and hung from a bridge."

  "I know, I know… These are very nasty people. All the more reason they have to be stopped, whatever it takes."

  "And you know the chances of nabbing this guy and getting back out are nearly impossible?"

  "It would have to be a very well-run operation."

  "And you know this could be a trap?"

  "Yes, that's an important consideration. We'll certainly have to account for it in our plans."

  "He's an important figure in the insurgency. He'll be heavily guarded."

  "I think he would… yes." She looked at me. "But if Charabi told the truth-"

  "Or if the Iranians told him the truth…"

  "All right… that's another risk." She was becoming visibly annoyed by my stream of well-reasoned objections and added, "Assuming this bin Pacha is the moneyman behind al-Zarqawi, getting our hands on him would be an incredible blow to the insurgency. Large rewards are worth large risks."

  "Here's a no-risk solution. Drop a bomb down his chimney. No more bin Pacha and we'll all be alive to talk about it. What's not to like?"

  Bian said, "Why are we debating this? Temporarily interrupting Zarqawi's supply of funds accomplishes nothing. He'll replace bin Pacha, who, anyway, surely has an understudy or backup. These are not stupid people-they do not run a sloppy operation. I know. I was there."

  "But-"

  "But if we capture bin Pacha, who knows what he can reveal?" She looked at me. "You don't understand the nature of this war. It's not about cities captured or terrain held. It's different. It's about people, important people who are key to the enemy's operation. The moneymen, the chief planners, the bomb makers. Take them out of commission, find out what they know, and you strike a crippling blow to the insurgency."

  She looked at me to be sure I understood. She said, "Neither his money sources nor Zarqawi will be located if he's dead. That's what we want to accomplish, isn't it? Get Zarqawi. Find out who's providing the funds and terminate their support."

  "How about if we're terminated?"

  She replied, "That's not your problem. You're not going."

  "Good point."

  She looked at Phyllis and suggested in a tone I found insultingly dismissive, "We don't need him anymore. I can handle this."

  Phyllis avoided my eyes. "You're right. Sean, show yourself out. Everything we discuss from here on is need-to-know only." She added, "Needless to say-"

  "If word leaks, you'll mount my balls on your wall."

  She pointed at a spot on the wall and said, "Right there. Only three of us are in the know. You understand-a leak of any type would be ridiculously easy to narrow down to its source."

  "I know my responsibility, Phyllis, and I do it."

  I stood. My eyes shifted from Phyllis, who was being her typically inscrutable self, then to Bian, who refused to make eye contact.

  Somebody had to say something, and after an awkward pause, Bian said, "It was nice working with you, Sean. If I ever…" She smiled weakly. "Well, if I ever need a lawyer, I hope you would agree to represent me."

  "Follow through with this, and you will need a lawyer."

  She did not reply.

  I took two steps toward the door and stopped. I didn't like the way this was ending. I knew they wouldn't listen, but I needed to make one more try. I mean, I understood why Phyllis thought this was a good idea; conspiracy, double crosses, and deception are like oxygen to these people. But Bian? What was she thinking?

  I spun around and told Bian, "Waterbury isn't going to let you do this. You know that."

  Phyllis informed us, "Leave Waterbury to me. I'm sure I can persuade him it's in his, and in the Pentagon's, best interest to loan us Bian."

  "You'll blackmail him."

  "Whatever."

  I said to Bian, "Is this about Mark?"

  "What?"

  "You heard me."

  "Leave him out of this."

  We stared at each other a moment. She was giving me that look women give when they wake up beside a complete stranger. "I'm right," I told her. "You believe you owe this to Mark."

  "You have no idea what you're talking about."

  "You did your tour, Bian. It's his turn in the box. Were he here, I'm sure he'd tell you the same thing."

  "How do you know what he would tell me?"

  "Because if he's half the man I think he is…" Actually, even I couldn't complete that hackneyed cliche. I leaned across the table and got about two inches from her face. "You've already done your part."

  "I didn't know there was a limit to how much duty you owe your country."

  "Duty, no. Stupidity, yes." I pointed at Phyllis. "She's manipulating you."

  "I know what's happening here."

  "I don't think you do."

  "I… yes, I do. Better than you."

  "Then you would know there are other ways to handle this. And you know what? Some even make sense."

  "That's not even an option," Bian replied. "If Daniels's stupidity is exposed to the public, it will blow the lid off the war. We'll be the laughingstock of the world. The entire coalition will run from Iraq. All those lives wasted… I won't let that be on my conscience."

  Phyllis stood and approached me. She tapped a finger on her watch and said, "You've had your say. There's a great deal to get done, and not much time to do it. Ple
ase see yourself out."

  I turned around and headed toward the door. No way was I going to become involved with this. I had had my say, and my conscience was clean. My actions would look good in front of the eventual in quest that would inevitably result from this stupid idea, too.

  I turned around again and I sat.

  Bian studied me a moment. "I don't need your chivalry."

  "How about my idiocy?"

  "I mean it, Sean. I'm not some helpless damsel in need of some misguided white knight."

  "This isn't about you."

  "Then-"

  I pointed at Phyllis. "I'm going to keep an eye on her."

  Phyllis smiled. I knew she had expected this outcome; I hate being so predictable, and I decided not to give her the satisfaction of knowing how much that pissed me off. I smiled back.

  She had obviously thought this through and said, "So here's the way this will work. Drummond, you will get our man in Falluja. Bian, you will employ your expertise in interrogation and language to find out what he knows."

  I looked at Phyllis. "And what will you be doing back here?"

  "Somebody has to figure out what to do about Charabi."

  I said, "So that's the carrot?"

  "As long as you're there, we might be able to kill two birds with one stone."

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  Trips to combat zones normally are preceded by long and extensive buildups, months of exhaustive training, equipment and personal preparation, country orientations, updating of wills, and so forth.

  On the plus side, this affords you the knowledge, the mental outlook, and the expert training to survive-with a chance to tidy up a few loose ends in case vice versa happens. On the minus side, it condemns you to months of restless nights filled with anxiety and cold fear.

  So in a way I was happy with only seven hours of notice; in a larger way, I was unhappy with any notice. Speed, however, was the ticket. Mr. bin Pacha might be the paranoid type who hops beds every night, or he might feel secure inside Falluja and get sloppy. We were banking on sloppiness and hoping for the best.

  So Phyllis allowed me five hours to go back to my apartment, rest, shower, pack some field uniforms and incidentals, and then I returned to the office for two fast hours of briefings. What this entailed was a rough sketch of a plan that, in Phyllis's words, was still "evolving, still being perfected," with an advisory that "an update will be provided upon your arrival."

  I thought about this and replied, "Said otherwise, I'm jumping out of a plane without a parachute, hoping the ground moves before my landing."

  "Don't worry. Only the good die young."

  "You'll live forever."

  She smiled, sort of. She then instructed, "Once you arrive in country, we can't risk telephonic contact. You can't imagine the number of collection systems operating inside and over Iraq these days. It is, of course, our number one collection priority, and our friends at NSA are as likely to intercept your emissions as the enemy's. Once you're in country, you're on your own."

  I was already on my own, but kept that thought to myself.

  Bian, I should mention, did not make an appearance, nor had she left me a short note wishing me good hunting, bon voyage, have a nice funeral, or whatever sentiment applied. Well, it didn't really matter as the plan was for her to join me in Iraq in a day or so, unless she had an onset of common sense in between.

  An elderly CIA doctor with quirky bedside manners administered three shots for diseases I've never heard of, issued me a bottle of malaria pills, and warned me to stay away from the local food, which wasn't going to be a problem since, as I mentioned, pickles on hamburgers is for me adventurous gourmandism.

  He pressed into my palm a box of prophylactics containing twenty-four rubbers, which I stared at in surprise. I'm as overconfident as the next guy, but I would be in country only two, maybe three days, max.

  I asked, "Are these the largest size you have?"

  He laughed, and even managed to act like this was the first time he had heard that line. It was a stupid joke, but those about to embark on suicidal missions tend to be humored. He informed me, "Hell, boy, these aren't for your nozzle. Nobody over there gets any poon. These keep dust and rust out of your weapon's nozzle. Ha-ha."

  Ha-ha. He was very funny. Seriously.

  Phyllis then pulled me aside and offered a few parting words that were brief, yet so emotionally heartfelt and moving that I actually choked up a little. She said, "Don't screw this up, or I'll have your ass."

  Anyway, next stop was the parking lot, where an Army Black Hawk helicopter awaited. I climbed aboard, and we lifted off and departed for Delaware, a flight that lasted nearly an hour.

  We flew at low altitude, and rather than dwell on the unhappy future, I occupied my mind observing the countryside below. America-truly, it is an amazing land, an inspiring land. The countryside was peppered with massive homes, many with large swimming pools, and what appeared to be outhouses, though probably they were cabanas or artists' studios or secondary residences where the crazy aunts and aging parents are kept.

  Like every society, ours is a confounding mixture of rich and poor, of haves and haveth-nots. And yet, I think, what makes us different from most is that here the poor can become rich, and the rich can become stinkingly richer or blow it all and end up cleaning all those swimming pools. This, I think, accounts for why we have so far limited ourselves to one revolution. Yet I also think we take for granted that because America has survived for over two hundred years, it will last another two hundred, ad infinitum. But the foundation is not as sturdy or impervious to harm as we once assumed, as nineteen homicidal maniacs showed us on September 11. That was supposed to be a wake-up call, the klaxons warning that bad people are out there, that they own the night, and we must, by courage, wiles, and force of arms, take it back. And yet here we were only three years after the fact, the lines at the recruiting stations had dwindled, and the sad but vacuous story of an over-the-hill pop star accused of diddling little boys had drowned out what brave men and women were doing in Iraq and Afghanistan.

  It struck me, too, that this war has produced no galvanizing heroes, or none the American public has ever heard of-no Audie Murphys, no Doolittles, no Schwarzkopfs. As a nation we no longer glorify war, which, for a society, is probably healthy and good. But when we fail to honor our warriors, I wonder.

  Not that Sean Drummond was harboring thoughts of returning a hero. The first time I went off to war, my father offered me one good piece of blunt advice: "A dead hero is still dead. Come home, son."

  Well, I was three for three so far, with a few nasty nicks on the last one, which was either a warning or a new lease on life. But every time you push it, you wonder if the fates are thinking, "Hey, this clown thinks he can beat the house odds; let's lower the boom."

  There was no need to go through the usual passport or customs nonsense, nor did I require an updated visa or passport. The boarding ticket was my military ID with a set of freshly minted, albeit phony, orders, and the plane was a shiny United Boeing 747 on contract to Uncle Sam's Air Force that was departing from Dover Air Force Base.

  The flight was filled with about two hundred soldiers and a few Marines, men for the most part, a few women, nearly all young, most of whom had already endured six months in Iraq, were granted two weeks of stateside R amp;R-rest and recuperation-and were headed back. Picture two hundred people who had just spent two weeks screwing and drinking their brains out. This was not a happy plane.

  I took my assigned seat beside an Army captain with the crossed rifles of the infantry on his collar and a nametag that read Howser. For the first hour, he said not a word-on his lap was a thick photo album he was flipping through, over and over, gazing thoughtfully at pictures of his lovely young wife and two little girls, twins actually, who were as cute as puppies.

  With nothing better to do, I ogled the pictures over his shoulder. This intrusion did not appear to bother him, though eventually he did look up and ask,
"Not married, sir?"

  "Nope."

  "Maybe that's better."

  "Maybe."

  "Nobody to worry about."

  "You mean nobody to worry about you."

  "Yeah…" Whereupon Captain Howser launched into a long, rambling discussion about his wife-Sara-his daughters-Lindsey and Anna-and how they had spent their two weeks of peaceful respite together. Very nice. Two guys, side by side on a long international flight, killing time with fond reminiscences and sappy anecdotes: Lindsey's first steps, Anna's first trip to the potty-her first successful trip-how Sara never complained about his absence, never lamented how lonely she got, never mentioned the anxiety attacks every time the doorbell rang with the possibility of bad news on the doorstep.

  Indeed, this was what distinguished this flight, and certainly what separated these passengers, from any of the other half million international travelers flying over the world's oceans at that moment. These passengers didn't want to be here, weren't looking forward to the destination, and nobody had a guaranteed return ticket.

  I sometimes envy guys like Howser; they have somebody to come home to, somebody who wants them home. For some odd reason, Bian and the photograph of her beloved fiance, Major Mark Kemble, popped to mind.

  My gut instincts said that Bian's seemingly illogical enthusiasm for this mission had something to do with him, mixed, perhaps, with a lingering feeling of injustice over her father and Vietnam, a war lost, ultimately, because America lost faith in the cause. These are powerful furies to carry in your heart and your mind-love and ghosts, the living and the dead, the man she loved today, and a war that stole her chance to love her father.

  In the words of Tennessee Williams, the heart is the most stubborn organ. About women, that sounds about right. About men, he definitely overlooked a more stubborn organ.

  Which opened the question of what motives placed me on this plane, headed off as I was to do something my instincts said was foolhardy, my legal judgment said was wrong, and in my professional judgment, bordered on suicidal.