The Jake Fonko Series: Books 4, 5 & 6

by B. Hesse Pflingger

  There was no more to discuss. I took him to the door, thanked him for his visit and bade him goodbye with a promise to consider his offer.

  *

  So, the next day I considered it. An interesting proposition, indeed. Fonko of Kuwait ?? I was learning that Kuwait, though prosperous and orderly, was a snake pit of cross-purposes and mutual hatreds. Nobody deserved an invasion like the one in progress, but the 27% of actual Kuwaitis—collectively a smug, stingy, overbearing and condescending lot—presided over unhappy campers outnumbering them by three to one. I counted myself on the Kuwaitis’ side but couldn’t help but sympathize with some of the others. My best interests still lay in getting away and letting the Kuwaitis, George Bush, the United Nations and Saddam Hussein sort it out among themselves. Clearly the buildup of Desert Shield forces beyond the border increasingly posed a threat to Saddam.

  I hesitated to throw in with Haroun and his merry band. Aside from my brief encounter with the Khmer Rouge I’d had no experience in urban warfare, one of the nastiest kinds of warfare there is—block by block, building by building, room by room, with little cover and plenty of concealment. I was bored and wouldn’t have minded a little action, but launching an escapade just to relieve boredom often as not brings more trouble than it’s worth. As long as I could keep dodging snooping Iraqis it seemed my best chances for safely getting back to Malibu lay in sitting tight at the Hilton Hotel while our diplomats negotiated.

  The following day Saddam Hussein announced that henceforth foreigners were forbidden to leave Kuwait.

  I packed my luggage that night, and first thing the next morning I dialed the number Haroun gave me. “I want to speak,” I said when the other end picked up, then replaced the phone in its cradle.

  *

  Haroun was as good as his word. He showed up at my door thirty minutes later with a bundle under his arm.

  “Mr. Jake,” he said, “I am very glad you saw the wisdom of my offer.”

  “You can thank Saddam for that,” I said. “I didn’t like the sound of forbidding foreigners to leave. Whatever comes next won’t be pleasant. Yes, I’ll help you out, but in exchange I want you to arrange passage for me out of Kuwait.”

  “It is a fair exchange. Kuwaitis continue to evacuate, some through the desert to Saudi Arabia, and others through Iraq to Jordan and Egypt. So good, let’s be off. I suggest you change your clothes first. It will make our exit easier.” He unfurled his bundle onto the bed. It was an everyday Arab robe and headdress, plus a pair of Arab slippers.

  “You want me to wear this?”

  “Yes, please. The hotel is under surveillance so a disguise is advisable. Take off everything but your underwear and slip into this.” He looked me up and down. “The beard is an excellent idea, but if I may offer a suggestion, we can trim it so as to look more Arabian.”

  We went into the bathroom and he showed me where to lather it up. He directed me to contour it here and there, and after I toweled off the guy in the mirror could have been cast in a Raiders of the Lost Ark bazaar crowd scene. Putting the robe on was a revelation. Hollywood desert movies give the impression that Arab robes are grimy tent substitutes, but the better sort are woven of fine fabrics and feel like elegant bathrobes. He adjusted my head scarf and fitted the head band, and I put on the slippers. “Where do I put my pocket stuff?” I asked.

  “Arab men carry pouches,” he said. “For now, put it in your flight bag. You can transport it under the robe.” I made to get my luggage. “No, it is unseemly for an Arab man to carry something himself,” he admonished. “I’ll have a servant bring it down.” He barked something in Arabic into the phone and soon a bellboy appeared at the door. Haroun barked more Arabic and we left the room, the bellboy toting my gear behind us. We paraded through the lobby and out to the entrance curb to a waiting luxe-model Jeep. The robe was surprisingly comfortable in the 110F heat. It didn’t cling and allowed for ample air circulation. Climbing into the car was awkward with all the folds of cloth to keep track of, but I got it sorted out.

  Haroun’s villa sat deep in the Hawalli district on a narrow, non-descript street. The driver stopped before a security gate in a high cement wall and tooted a code. The gate opened and we entered, passing by two guards with submachine guns, into a compound of several buildings standing among well-tended, palm-shaded gardens. The scope of it was much larger than it appeared from the street; the wall blocked the view effectively. We stopped at the entrance of the main building, three tall stories with an imposing facade. “Come in, Mr. Jake,” he said. “Some others of our unit are staying here as well. I’ll introduce you and then show you your quarters.”

  We passed from an ornate foyer through a short hallway to as sumptuous a salon as I’d ever seen, surpassing the wildest fantasies of Hollywood set designers. Carpets like I’d bought during my Iran gig covered polished marble floors. Heavy silk drapes accented double-glazed picture windows on opposite walls. Fine European tables and casual chairs sat among cushion-laden sofas and settees. Air conditioning kept the place comfy-cool. One thing was clear—it’s good to be a member of an oil-sheikdom’s ruling family.

  Several men sat around the room. They rose to greet me, and Haroun introduced us—another Al Sabah, an Al Bahar, an Al Sayer, and an Al Segar or two—the very sons the men in the conference had extolled so enthusiastically. Another man in the group, whose name did not fit the Kuwaiti template, Nasr Abu Khattab, was a Palestinian highly placed in one of their businesses. Their ages ranged from twenties to thirties, and they looked physically fit. A couple wore Arab robes, the others western clothes. They were grave but welcoming. “Mr. Haroun has told us of your exploits,” Mamoon Al Bahar said. “We welcome your assistance.”

  Another man stepped forward and offered his hand. “I am Salah Melik Al-Sabah, Mr. Jake,” he said. “Welcome to my family’s villa. Most of my family have retired to safer places from which to plan and arrange the return of Kuwait to its rightful citizens. I stayed behind to organize resistance to the Iraqis. Fawaz Al Sabah told us of your experience and expertise in unconventional warfare and advised us to contact you if you were still in Kuwait. He thought your assistance would be invaluable to our cause.”

  “Mr. Haroun honored me with his invitation,” I replied. “I will do what I can to help you.” Salah summoned a servant, gave instructions, and the servant soon returned with a serving cart of coffee, tea and fruit drinks. We all took seats and tentatively got acquainted. They represented families that lived in that district, many of whose members had gone into exile. They had stayed in Kuwait City to protect their family villas from looters and vandalism and also to fight the Iraqis. After preliminary chit-chat about the weather, distant world events and the mystery of Michael Jackson (they’d seen his “New Generation” Pepsi ad and couldn’t fathom his appeal), the talk turned to Kuwait. It was discouraging, one said, because more Iraqis arrived every day, each batch worse than the previous ones. When they had finished with their desecration of the city center they would inevitably progress to looting the residences.

  “We know we Kuwaitis can’t defeat them by ourselves,” Ghanem Al Segar admitted. “We only hope to forestall and harass them until the forces gathering at the Saudi border drive them out.”

  “It may be many months,” observed Salah Al Sabah. “The logistics of such an operation forming from distant nations are formidable.”

  “What do you think about that, Mr. Jake?” asked Haroun.

  “I agree with Mr. Salah that the buildup may take months,” I said. “But once they have prepared you can rely that the force will be overwhelming. President Bush will not take half-measures. To change the subject, can someone give me an idea of the kind of resistance your unit engages in, how you go about it?”

  Salah was the leader and he took my question. “The Iraqis swarm over everything during the day, so we go forth after dark when they are timid. What we do depends on the circumstan
ces. We sometimes run messages and deliver things to other units. We stand guard duty. We are working on setting up ambushes and establishing snipers. That is where you can help us, as our military training did not cover this kind of warfare. The Kuwaiti government in exile has sent word that they will pay 20,000 dinars—about 60,000 American dollars—for each assassination of an Iraqi soldier, so that is an additional incentive for us. Of course if Iraqis approached any of our villas we would defend them to the death with arms. No Arab can abide someone forcing his way into his home unbidden.”

  I stood up and moved to a clear area on the big carpet. “I don’t know how Kuwaitis run night operations, but American Rangers rely on stealth, concealment and rapid movement. I appreciate this robe Mr. Haroun has loaned me, but I don’t see how I could be of much help dressed in this way.”

  “What do you mean, Mr. Jake?” Haroun asked.

  “Are any of you trained in the martial arts, hand-to-hand fighting?” I asked, sweeping the room with a glance. A couple had been. I asked the more fit-looking one, Kadar Al Sayer, to join me and assume a fighting stance. I tried a few moves on him, tried a few holds, and it was as I’d feared. From my side, folds of cloth impeded every move I made. From his side, he easily faked me out and left me grabbing fabric rather than solid wrists, and punching an empty bag rather than flesh and bone. “It’s hopeless,” I said. “How do you people fight in these get ups?”

  Salah said, “From a distance, with a rifle. Up close, with a knife in the guts. If we have to do such things. Preferably we’d rather pay somebody to do it. It’s not a cowboy movie, Mr. Jake. Arabs do not customarily fight with fists.”

  “Actually neither do Rangers. We have other means of physical fighting. And I can’t do them if I’m dressed like this. I brought no clothing suitable for night ops. Is there some way I could get some loose fitting western clothing, in black?”

  “Of course.” He summoned a servant and dispatched him out of the room. Presently he returned with a man holding a tape measure. “This is our tailor,” Mr. Salah said. “Tell him what you want, and you will have it by nightfall.” The tailor took my specs and my measurements, then left. “After dinner we’ll see about arms,” said Mr. Salah.

  Thus went my induction into the Kuwaiti resistance.

  *

  Following a sumptuous dinner the tailor presented his work: a black silk, loose-fitting dojo suit that covered my arms and legs. Perfect. A servant brought an assortment of running shoes. I found a pair that fit and we rounded up some blacking to adapt them for night duty. I picked out a side arm—no SIG Sauers so a Beretta would do—strapped on a holster and we were ready to roll.

  Salah explained that we had no specific mission that night so would patrol the neighborhood for a while. He wanted to see how I approached the work. We mounted up in a Land Rover pickup, me riding in the cab with Salah and two others with submachine guns in the bed. At first it seemed like a college prank, for we drove slowly along under a bright half-crescent moon, our own lights off, stopping to take down street signs. “To confuse the Iraqis,” Salah explained. “You will notice also that villas have removed their numbers. When they finally assault our district we want to hinder them in every way possible.”

  There wasn’t much action out and about that night. There was the curfew, of course, but the Iraqis stayed in too. As we cruised down one of the main streets I saw street signs on the other side. “Should we go over and get those?” I asked.

  “That’s a Shiite block,” Salah said. “Let them take care of their own. No problem” he reassured me, “they hate Saddam even more than we do.”

  We passed a shopping complex and I noticed some movement in the shadows. “Is that worth checking out?” I asked.

  “My friends in back are not trained in that kind of warfare. They could shoot at it, but that is not a good idea if there is no obvious threat.”

  What the heck, might as well earn my pay. “I’ll tell you what. Drive around behind the shops. I’ll hop out, then you drive slowly back around to the front. By then I should have found out what’s going on.”

  Salah slowed down in the back street and I quietly left the car. I crept back through the shadows to where I’d detected movement and spotted my man planted in the doorway of a food store. I stepped out with pistol drawn and said, “You there!” He wasted no time, springing up and bolting around the corner of the building before I could react. I holstered the pistol and sprinted after him, slowing down as I approached the end of the building. I took a quick step out past the corner and retracted it instantly. A figure lunged with arms outstretched and, missing his target, stumbled into the building across the breezeway. I bum-rushed him, sending him sprawling with me atop. He had surprisingly good moves, but I out-muscled him to submission. “Speak English?” I asked.

  “English yes. Falang?”

  “Falang yes. American.”

  “I am Thai,” he said. “Friend. No fight, ok? No fight.”

  “No fight ok.” I let him go and we got up and dusted ourselves off. “What are you doing here?” I asked.

  “Thai friends have this shop. They live upstairs with wives and daughters. Iraq soldiers rape Thai ladies, kill their men. Kuwaitis give us no help. So we protect our own.” He bent over and retrieved something from the ground.

  “What do you have there?”

  “Garrote. For killing Iraq soldiers. Quiet and quick.” He showed me a long, fine wire with wood handles at each end. Loop it around someone’s throat, pull hard and that’s that for him—as he’d tried to do with me.

  “Piano wire?”

  “Guitar string. Falang friend give me, bPaulo Kennedy from Al-Muthanna Block. You know he?”

  “No, never had the pleasure. I’ve only been in Kuwait a few days, don’t know any other falangs. What are those on the ends?”

  “Broomstick for handles.”

  “That’s a pretty neat rig. Any luck so far?”

  “I’ve done eight, trying for ten. Iraqis are easy. Soldiers are idiots, Republican Guards only average.”

  “Where’d you learn this stuff?” I asked.

  “Thai Rangers, served on Chinese border.”

  “American Ranger myself, LRRP in Nam.”

  “Paint face guys?”

  “Same same.”

  “Some U.S. Rangers come to Thailand, give us training. Good outfit. Tough men.”

  Haroun showed up at the curb out front. Nothing more to do here. “My ride’s arrived. Good hunting.”

  “You too, Falang.”

  I reported the incident to Salah. “That isn’t right, foreigners killing Arabs on our soil,” he said.

  “He’s doing God’s work,” I said.

  “There is no God but Allah,” he huffed. “Do the Thais and Filipinos and Indians think they have a monopoly on revenge? The Iraqis rape Kuwaiti girls, too, some not even ten years old, and women of all ages, even white-haired grandmothers. They make their husbands and fathers and sons watch, then they slaughter them all afterwards and leave them there in their own blood. And I’ll tell you something else. You don’t want to fall into their hands. I’ve heard what happens when they catch our men—electroshock. Cut out tongues. Gouge out eyes. Cut off manhood. I hope every Iraqi is welcomed by Shaytan through the gates of Hell to burn in the eternal fire. They disgrace Islam.”

  *

  My foray with the Thai Ranger highlighted the evening’s action. We dodged a couple Iraqi army vehicles by slipping into alleyways. If they spotted us, they weren’t hot to pursue the matter.We returned to the villa around midnight.

  “How about some refreshments?” Salah suggested. No dissents. Hydration was an unrelenting issue in that climate. He had a servant bring in tea, coffee, and an array of cold soft drinks and fruit juices, plus an assortment of nibblies.

  “After action in Nam we’d always knock back a few beer
s,” I remarked. “Same the whole world over, I guess.”

  “Beers, you say? Would you prefer a beer?”

  “I wouldn’t mind at all, but isn’t this a Muslim country?”

  He summoned a servant and gave him an instruction. “One of my uncles was at one time assigned a diplomatic task in Brussels, Belgium. Everyone extolled the wonders of Belgium beer. He finally took a taste out of curiosity, and it pleased him. My uncle was a devout man and he knew very well the Quran’s strictures on alcohol, so he looked into the nature of these beers. He found the ingredients to be grains, hops, some flavorings and water. There was no alcohol listed in the ingredients. So he reasoned, ‘If alcohol somehow appears in these beers it must be Allah’s will, and who am I to question Allah’s will?’ When he returned to Kuwait he contrived to bring a supply with him.”

  Presently a servant appeared with a cold bottle of some variety of Trappist beer and a crystal goblet. It lived up to its reputation.

  Sunday, August 26, 1990

  Our little resistance cell soldiered along. It was definitely a man’s world. Other women lived in the compound, but we guests rarely saw them and then only foreign servants. Al Sabah women stayed out of our sight. In those early days of the Iraqi occupation the resistance still coalesced, shifted and developed, feeling its way, testing its capabilities and discovering its weaknesses. The latter outweighed the former, as we were up against an overwhelming, well-armed and ruthless enemy.

  Our group mostly patrolled our district, delivered materiel, ferried people around, relayed messages, and stood guard duty—low-level logistical support, basically. The Iraqis plastered posters and billboards featuring Saddam Hussein all over Kuwait City, and we tore them down or defaced them. We had a few shootouts when we were called to support other units in emergencies, but overall we didn’t rack up many bodies. We rarely encountered Iraqi incursions into our territory on our regular patrols. Just as well we didn’t get into serious firefights, as I was twenty years past my Nam combat tour and about an order of magnitude out of shape for the rigors of close fighting. There are sound reasons why we send 19-year-old men to fight our wars.