The Anvil of the Craftsman (Jon's Trilogy)

by Dale Amidei

  He looked over the six people he had chosen. None looked hesitant. It was going to fly.

  “One other thing, Bernie—this new command structure does something for us. Scrub the names from the report for the Ambassador. Those details are need-to-know, as far as whom. Replace them with role instead. Envoy and network go full speed ahead. If anyone has a problem with that, I will handle it, or I will find someone who can.”

  Colby saw Schuster’s mood improve, and that was never a bad thing. “OK, people, that’s all I have. See you in the morning.”

  They exchanged a few looks and drifted out, murmuring among themselves on the way. Schuster remained.

  “Something on your mind, Bern?”

  Schuster looked as if he needed to know something. “The security function, Tom. I feel like I let you down on that. Am I being replaced because of it?”

  Colby shook his head. “You had enough Blackwater people at the hangar to save our asses, Bernie. They did OK at the traffic circle too. Nothing that happened reflected badly on you. This guy was McAllen’s idea. We need to make him a good fit to go forward, that’s all. Work with him for me, OK?”

  Looking relieved, Schuster nodded. “I had to ask, Tom. Sorry.”

  Colby nodded. “Ask what you need to ask, Bernie. I can’t do this without you. Go have a Wednesday night on me.”

  “Good night, Tom,” Schuster laughed, “I'll see you in the morning.”

  Colby moved as far as the door and watched him leave, once again having the office to himself. He realized how very much he wanted to succeed. It was the old football mentality, maybe, he thought. Winning wasn’t everything, but losing would suck, and the game sure as hell wasn’t over yet.

  The next morning Kameldorn sat pondering a cup of the General’s good coffee and his future as a State Department liaison.

  “You’re gonna be more than a damned liaison, Major. Your mission hasn’t changed. Find that al-Khafji son of a bitch and air him out if you want, or ship him off to Guantanamo where we’ll fatten his ass up for the next thirty years if we don’t hang him first. I don’t really care as long as he stops being a problem.”

  “Begging the General’s pardon, sir, which is the priority mission?”

  “State’s or yours? That’ll be your call day-to-day, Major. You look at it and figure it out, and follow your nation’s best interest. The one operating restriction that we have is on providing overt support. You want a Marine Division or an Army ID to escort you out to Anbar, you’re out of luck. The political environment isn’t gonna let us do that. You make your own arrangement that I don’t know about, and we’re fine.”

  “These State Department guys know what they’re getting into, sir?”

  McAllen sniffed. “I wish I could answer you, son. Their head guy, this Colby, is smart enough. He’ll listen to what you tell him. But mission priority isn’t going to be an issue for him. It’s his initiative, and he’ll see it through come hell or high water. Count on that.”

  “Well then, sir, I’m going to need some stuff.”

  “You’re already cleared with the Quartermaster, Major. Anything they can’t provide let me know about. Lose the uniform for awhile. You’re going to want to look like a diplomat as much as you can: eat too much, think too much, and get in the way. You know what I mean.”

  Kameldorn laughed. “Yes, sir, I’ll remember my officer training, sir.”

  McAllen faked a stern look. “You’ll do fine. Go see those folks in the morning. We’ll take it from there.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  McAllen watched him leave. Kameldorn had operated in challenging environments before. If the good Major kept his expectations low, he thought, the man ought to get along with diplomats just fine.

  The previous night Colby had gotten an introductory call at the Al Rasheed from Kameldorn, offering him a Friday weekend breakfast on the military at the MI mess hall at 0700. Colby arrived on time. It was smart, he thought, for McAllen’s guy to set up the meeting on his own turf. He himself was trying to avoid the adversarial attitude telling him that he was being played already. He needed this officer and was determined to give him a chance.

  “Mr. Colby?” the voice asked.

  Colby turned. The man was wearing a sport coat and Dockers, with a tie. He was just a tad taller, closer to forty than thirty, and had black hair tinged with streaks of gray. He looked to be in the shape that Colby had been once, long ago in college; the officer carried more of his weight in his chest and legs than he himself did now. The handshake was solid but not crushing, and his gray eyes were … alive, Colby thought; they weren’t dead and hostile like those of someone whom you knew instantly you could not trust.

  “You must be Major Kameldorn,” he said. “It’s a pleasure, sir. You come highly recommended by General McAllen.”

  Kameldorn grinned. “As do you, sir. Call me Matt.”

  “It’s Tom here, then.”

  Kameldorn turned, motioning with his head toward the doors. “Let’s eat. Thanks for coming over this morning.” The man led the way into the mess.

  Colby’s vision of the M*A*S*H* chow line was quickly supplanted by the reality of Kameldorn’s favorite eating spot. It looked like a corporate cafeteria. Ready-to-go and custom-grilled choices were available, with fresh fruit and salsas, and a halal section that offered the traditional Chaldean-style lentil soup and pitas that many locals favored to start their day. His stomach reminded him that this was more than just a business function.

  He went with the faster fare: scrambled eggs, hash browns and some spicy turkey sausage—offered, he assumed, to avoid featuring pork on the menu. He rejoined Kameldorn at the coffee machine where he saw that the man had chosen a plate of fresh fruit and several slices of wheat toast.

  Colby filled a mug. “Not exactly what I imagined.”

  “There’s a lot of General McAllen in this place. The man knows where to get the goods. And he hates bad chow.” Kameldorn grinned again.

  Kameldorn led him to a table in the corner of the seating area that had the most space surrounding it. Colby noticed that he slid into the far seat, facing outward as he thought Bill Hickok would have.

  “So tell me about Matt Kameldorn,” he asked of his host, sipping the excellent coffee.

  Kameldorn shrugged, stabbing a chunk of melon. “I’m a working guy. Been here on and off since ’91. I used to help bring a pilot back in now and again. It turned into a career, and lately General McAllen’s been keeping me busy.”

  “Doing?”

  “This and that. Now he thinks that I could help your team out. I understand that you’ve been here before too.”

  Colby did not fail to notice him turning the conversation to another direction. “A couple of times. This, though, is the most involved initiative to date.”

  Kameldorn nodded, finishing a slice of toast in two bites. “Your province has issues.”

  Colby liked his discretion. Kameldorn wouldn’t even mention Al Anbar out loud. Layers insulated this man, but digging into them wasn’t a priority. So far, he was getting a good vibe. It was time to see if it would hold.

  “How do you envision helping the team, Major? Technically, you will be heading us up, according to General McAllen.”

  “I believe the word he used was nominally. I like that word. I like the idea of staying out of the way. I’m not a diplomat, Mr. Colby. I’m an officer in the United States Air Force and I don’t have any illusions otherwise. This suit is camouflage for the environment that I will be operating in, and that’s it. If someone comes at you or your people, I will get in his way. If I make a call, I hope you’ll listen because it’s going to be in someone’s best interest that you hear me. Is that fair enough?”

  Colby nodded. “That’s fair enough, Matt. Forgive me. I had to ask.”

  “I know. That’s why I wanted to have this conversation here instead of in front of your people. I’ll let you bring me in when you’re ready.”

  “That’s fair enough.
Thank you.”

  Kameldorn shrugged. “Anything else?”

  Colby paused. “General McAllen said that you’re looking for a man, from the airport.”

  “And the traffic circle, and the car bombs. He may not have been there in person—that’s not his style—but those were his operations.”

  “You think he’s going to try again.”

  “General McAllen does. That’s good enough for me.” Kameldorn seemed impassive.

  This guy should be playing poker in Vegas, Colby thought. “Is that why he suggested you for this role?”

  “I will never put you or your people in danger to draw out a target, sir. I don’t operate that way. Believe me when I tell you that all I need to do is be there when you do what you are going to do anyway.”

  Colby nodded slowly before he responded. “Again, fair enough. One thing, if I can ask.”

  “Please.”

  “Do you think our initiative is a good idea or a bad one?”

  Kameldorn took a bite of melon, spending an extra few seconds with it before answering. “I can see the utility in your initiative, Tom. It needs to happen at some point. The timing is bad now, but what you envision happening is what will turn it around. If you have the motivation, you could be the one to turn it. But there’s a price that this country extracts for progress, and your people came close to paying it at the traffic circle. I hope you understand that.”

  Colby looked down at his plate for a few moments, appreciating the honesty in the man’s words. “Come by after lunch on back-to-work-Sunday, Matt. It will give us a chance to settle in, then we’ll introduce you. Welcome aboard.”

  “Yes, sir—ah, Tom. Let me know what I can do.”

  They finished breakfast with small talk about the cafeteria and the Green Zone. Kameldorn excused himself when he finished. He policed his side of the table, taking his tray to the rollers that whisked it away to the dishwashers. Colby had a better feeling now than when he had started the morning. The man was smart, he was good at what he did, and he knew how to handle people. Colby thought he might also be very dangerous. He hoped that they would never have to find out.

  Two days later Kameldorn was in the Embassy offices at 1:00 PM sharp, Colby noticed through his office door. He rose from his desk. He had given his people a heads-up on the new team member, whom he called a security specialist. Especially glad to hear it were people with gauze pads and wound tape under their clothing.

  Carol Addams seemed enthused, Colby observed, but he did not want to spend too much time thinking about why. The office introduction game went as usual with welcomes and handshakes all around. Colby moved Kameldorn along as fast as he could. The sticky part was waiting just around the corner.

  “Carol, where’s Bernie?” he asked.

  “He ran upstairs. He said that he would be right back,” she explained.

  “Great. We’ll be in the conference room. Can you send him our way when he shows up?”

  Carol nodded. She and another woman traded looks when Kameldorn turned toward the conference area, Colby saw. They approved of the "new guy," he thought.

  Colby settled into a chair. Kameldorn did the same.

  “Casual office, Matt. Want to hang your jacket?”

  “It’s OK. I can keep it on.”

  Colby thought of that as odd, as he ditched his whenever possible. He heard Schuster return, and Carol directed him over. Bernie appeared at the doorway a moment later. Both men rose.

  “Bernie Schuster, meet Matt Kameldorn,” Colby said. “He’s our security specialist.”

  Schuster nodded and shook his hand. “Our resident uniform. Good to meet you, Major.”

  Colby noticed that Schuster closed the door behind him before he sat down. “Need to hang up your coat, Mr. Kameldorn? We try to relax around here.”

  “Thanks, I’m fine,” the newcomer said again. Colby suddenly realized why, but it was too late now.

  “C’mon, man, it’s OK.” Schuster held out his hand, standing by the hooks where he and Colby had already hung theirs.

  Kameldorn glanced at Colby and for a moment looked resigned. He took off the sport jacket, and Colby could see the pistol magazine and flashlight carrier on his left side. Schuster got the full view of the Browning pistol on his right. Kameldorn handed his coat to the momentarily silent Bernie Schuster.

  “You can carry that thing in the Embassy?” he asked.

  “Everywhere,” Kameldorn said.

  Schuster grimaced and hung the sport coat. “I guess it is a war zone.”

  As Schuster sheepishly took his seat, Colby apologized. “Sorry, Matt. We should have known.”

  Kameldorn shook his head. “I can wear a tuckable holster next time. My shirt will cover it. It's my fault for not blending in.”

  Schuster cleared his throat. “It’s cocked.”

  “Yes, sir. It’s a single action, carried round in the chamber, safety on. Very fast and a high hit potential under stress.”

  Schuster look uncomfortable. “How many notches on the butt?”

  Colby winced. “Goddammit, Bernie, that’s none of our business.”

  “Sorry, Tom. He’s our security specialist. I thought it was relevant.”

  Unruffled, Kameldorn ignored the question. “I’m your security specialist, Mr. Schuster, whether either one of us likes the idea or not. I will be the interface to our outer layer, which might be military now although it looks like State is going to be continuing Blackwater from what I understand. And I’ll be here, close in, just in case of a breach.”

  Colby looked at Schuster with reproach. “Bern, I wanted to give Matt an overview of the status of our initiative—bring him up to speed on what’s going on.”

  Schuster nodded. “How much does he know already?”

  Leaning forward, Kameldorn accommodated him. “You have been sending your locals out to Anbar regularly since the first week of this month. Some responses are coming in, Sheik al-Dulaimi in particular, your guest at the airport on Sunday. Not bad for three weeks of work.”

  Impressed, Schuster glanced at Colby.

  “He had that by the time he got here, Bernie,” he said.

  Schuster turned back toward Kameldorn. “It gets better. Al-Dulaimi is taking an active role in what we’d planned to do through the envoys. He’s trying to round up the heads of the tribal groups for a conference, the first interchange that we’ll have on that level. He wants us out there next month for a preliminary. Cultural thing, I guess, because we've already hosted him here.”

  Kameldorn nodded. “It’s Adab. Bedouins are noted for their hospitality.”

  Schuster made a note. “It’s business too. Al-Dulaimi is a natural politician, and he wants to be on the forefront of change. He’s throwing in with the forming government, and we take that as a good sign that we can swing Anbar.”

  “If you say so, Mr. Schuster. Anbar swings itself.” Kameldorn eased back into his conference room chair. “Sometimes it’s in a good direction, sometimes very bad. I’ve been ‘out there’ more than once. I’ve seen both.”

  Colby leaned in. “Good or bad, Major, we need to go. We’ll appreciate you being with us.”

  “I’ll do what I can.”

  For a moment, Kameldorn seemed to Colby as if a bad memory had cast a shadow behind those gray eyes. Colby glanced at Schuster. Bernie had missed it. They were very different men needing to work well together, Colby told himself.

  “Thanks, guys,” he said, ending the meeting. “Let’s make it happen.”

  Colby dropped onto his bed in his suite at the Al Rasheed, very tired, late that night. It was a good tired, the kind of tired that let a person know he had gotten something done. He’d burned a lot of time orienting Kameldorn today, and it put him out the door late for a Sunday. Progress had been steady since their arrival here, amazingly so despite the potential disasters that events in-country represented to their mission. The al-Askari Mosque bombing with its resulting sectarian violence had thrown the nation i
nto a state bordering civil war. The series of car bombings, including the attack on the conference with Sheik al-Dulaimi and the ambush of his people’s convoy, had nearly shut down their initiative altogether.

  Had it not been for General McAllen’s intervention, they would be spinning their wheels now, Colby thought. The accomplishments of the year to date would diminish, and Colby hated wasting time. He thought about the years of his now-ended marriage. They were almost wasted except for having given him his girls.

  His eyes drifted to where they smiled at him from his bedside table, a picture they had sent with him for his trip to Baghdad. He hadn’t told them that it would be any different this year. Daddy worked for the State Department, and he had to go "over there" as they told everyone. However, he would be safe and home in the summer. They knew because that was what he had told them before he left.

  Colby checked his watch: it was after midnight in Baghdad. In Virginia, the girls would be home, working last minute on their homework assignments from Friday that were due tomorrow. They would keep at it until their mother got in from her weekend shift at Walter Reed in about an hour. It was when he usually called although in his native time zone he was cutting into his workday instead of his sleep time. He needed to hear their voices.

  He used his international calling card through the Al Rasheed analog system; it was scratchy but sufficient. Eventually, he heard the connection ring his old house in Annandale.

  Shanna, his oldest, answered. She probably had the cordless right beside her as usual. “Colby’s,” she said, trying to sound like a receptionist.

  “Hey, baby.” Colby stared at the textured ceiling, trying to imagine that it was the starry Virginia sky.

  “Hi, Daddy! Where are you?”

  “Baghdad, kiddo, at my hotel. Are you and your sister behaving for your mom?”