by Dale Amidei
“Yes, I am anyway. Dixie’s grounded for driving Mom’s car. She only went around the block, but she parked it wrong.”
Colby frowned. “Why was she doing that?”
“I told her she wasn’t old enough yet.”
“Honey, you’re not old enough yet.”
“I almost am. Are you coming home?”
Colby didn’t sigh, but he wanted to. “Not yet, babe. Daddy’s got some stuff to do here first. I’ll be back when you guys are out of school, and we’ll do something fun. How’s your mom?”
“She’s OK. She’s going out more, but I can watch Dixie just fine.”
Colby rolled his eyes. The last thing he needed to hear about was his ex’s social life. Then again, he thought, at least she had one.
“Is Dixie there?” he asked.
“Yes,” she turned from the phone and yelled. “Dixie, it's Dad!”
A clomping noise sounded across the hardwood floor in the living room then the voice of his 12-year old. “Hi, Daddy!”
“Hi, princess. I hear you got busted.”
“Yeah. Shanna dared me,” she giggled.
“I did not!” he heard Shanna protest in the background.
“You better be a good girl while Daddy is gone, or I won’t bring you anything from Baghdad when I get home.”
“Whatcha gonna bring me?”
Colby smiled. “How about a princess costume? Like in Aladdin?”
“Oh yeah! That’d be kewl.”
“But you have to be a good girl. Don’t do stuff you know is wrong, even on a dare, OK?”
“I won’t. I promise.”
“Good girl. I love you, baby. Put Shanna back on, OK?”
“OK, ‘bye, Daddy.” He heard Shanna take the handset.
“It’s me,” he heard her say. “I didn’t dare her.”
“It doesn’t matter, honey. I want you to watch your sister better when your mom is busy, OK? No traffic violations.”
“Yes, sir.”
“It’s late here, baby. Daddy’s got to get in bed. I love you both, all right?”
“We love you too, Daddy. Good night!”
“Good night, honey.” Colby could feel the tears streaming out of his eyes and onto his temples as he lay there. His hair was wet above the ears. He hung up the phone and remained there for awhile, staring at the popcorn texture of the ceiling. It had to be worth it. It had to be.
Chapter 14: Anbar 101
Kameldorn was up today in Colby's rotation, pairing with the Jon Anthony kid as all the staff would before the core team headed for Anbar. It had been far less annoying than anticipated, considering that he was unused to interacting with academics. Anthony, Kameldorn thought, was a natural at working with people. The young man was quiet and a good listener. More importantly, Kameldorn found him able to provide incisive, culturally accurate and psychologically sound input and advice. Anthony was someone whom Kameldorn felt he could trust, and he was somewhat surprised by that. They had begun the morning discussing the many nuances of Islamic etiquette. By lunch, they had turned the topics to more personal subjects as people who grew more comfortable working together often did.
They were both interested in how people interacted, Kameldorn thought, and in understanding their motives although perhaps for differing reasons. In his own case, it permitted prediction of behavior, but Anthony seemed interested in understanding them for understanding’s own sake. The kid was a bright light, Kameldorn decided. He had suggested lunch at McAllen’s mess, and Anthony, having heard about the chow from Colby, thought it sounded like a great idea.
Conversation during the meal drifted to Anthony’s experience at Britteridge, including his sudden departure for the world of international diplomacy. Kameldorn shook his head at Anthony’s description of D. Richard Wainwright, able to relate as any military person would to showing a forced respect to an undeserving superior. With McAllen, fortunately, the respect came easily.
“Well, kid, I guess I’ll have to start calling you ‘Doc’,” he said with a hint of humor in his voice.
Anthony looked at him quizzically, chewing his food. “I’ve got a Master’s. If it were a doctorate, I probably wouldn’t be here.”
“Well, I need to call you something, and it sounds like you earned it whether or not Britteridge thinks so. Colby’s tag is the Chief. Schuster I’m still deciding on.”
“Bernie’s OK, ” Anthony said, laughing. “His talent is thinking otherwise.”
Kameldorn nodded; again, Anthony had nailed it. The kid was sharp. “Maybe. Kind of makes it hard to tag him with anything socially acceptable though. But what’s in a name anyway, someone once asked.”
“Shakespeare—Romeo and Juliet.”
Kameldorn just snickered around a mouthful of his chicken ranch wrap, shaking his head again. Anthony paused, looking like there was something on his mind.
“Speaking of … I want to ask you something, but I can’t decide if it’s an appropriate question for someone in your line of work.”
Kameldorn swallowed and took a sip of water. “Sounds like too good of a question to not ask.”
He saw Anthony glance around, almost conspiratorially, before he lowered his voice. “Kameldorn. It’s German for camel spine—birth name or assumed?”
Kameldorn laughed before he replied. “I change names like you change socks, Doc. My ID says Kameldorn now and so does my file. My bosses understand.”
“And going with Matt, not Matthew—in the Qur'an the angel of death is called the malak al-maut. He is the one responsible for parting the soul and the body.”
“Nice catch, kid.” Kameldorn was impressed. “And I thought I was being pretty damned clever.”
Anthony suddenly looked uncomfortable. Kameldorn noticed.
“I’m an Air Force officer, kid, not an assassin, just in case you wonder.”
Anthony nodded. “You look like someone who is good at it.”
“I’ve been better than anyone that I’ve gone up against so far. I put a lot of effort into keeping it that way.”
Anthony looked at him, and when the kid looked at anyone, Kameldorn thought, he was trying to look inside. But with this one, you didn’t mind as much.
“Is all this worth it, Matt? The effort as a whole, I mean. We’re starting Year Four here. What do you think?”
Kameldorn sighed. “It’s not my call, Jon. You’re asking the wrong person. That’s for people like you to decide, and Colby, and the President. I’m stuck right here in the present, looking around, seeing things that need doing. That’s as far as I need to go.”
“No personal philosophy?”
“I do my job. I think it’s worth doing. My command structure agrees. It’s been my life since I got out of high school. What the moral implications of the war effort are, or what anyone’s God thinks about what is going on, doesn’t matter to someone under orders. It might sound simple, but it also provides clarity of action. And sometimes it’s clarity that keeps you alive when you run into someone who has opposing goals. That can be a very dangerous time to stop and philosophize.”
“You say that very naturally, like someone who’s seen it.”
Kameldorn nodded. “I’ve watched men die, Doc. I’ve tried to learn from every one of them. Some were my own guys; some were the enemy. Every one of them taught me something that I can use. I doubt any of them would have thought that the lesson they gave me was worth it.”
“They didn’t give it, Matt. You took it. It was there and would have been wasted if you hadn’t picked it up. It means that there’s still something of them moving through the world. That’s the way life keeps going after we leave here.”
Kameldorn sat back, pushing his tray away from the edge of the table. Anthony, for the moment talked out, continued through his meal. He was processing something or another in his mind at all times, Kameldorn decided. It wasn’t a bad trait. It was good, he thought, to meet a person occasionally who gave you more hope than usual. He could see why C
olby had put him on the core team, those who would be packing soon for the excursion westward. Someone had to be thinking, someone had to be talking, and someone else needed to watch everyone’s six o’clock. Colby had his bases covered. Kameldorn was hoping that the man would turn out to have a winning season.
It was a week or so afterward that Colby was sitting with the core team in the conference room, discussing the field trip quickly and unavoidably drawing ever nearer. It was odd, he thought, that he should hesitate about setting out after something that had been his goal since he formulated this initiative back in Washington. The Sheik insisted that he return their hospitality at his walled compound in the country outside of Ar Ramadi.
No longer able to maintain his passivity, Kameldorn seemed to force himself to speak. “Tom, half of all insurgent attacks in the country are happening in the area around Ramadi. It’s a hornet’s nest out there.”
Schuster agreed. “The insurgents own the place, Tom. It’s going to be another Fallujah before long.”
Colby shook his head. “The Sheik is a good twenty miles outside of the city. He’s feeling secure enough to send the invitation. You’ve met the man, Bernie. You know that he’s a straight shooter. We can bivouac with that Army outfit … what is it, the Second ID?”
Colby saw Kameldorn nod. “The 1/9 of the Second is at Camp Saif outside of Ramadi. It’s not a Holiday Inn Express, but General McAllen said that he could arrange for them to put us up for the night.”
“And then we’ll be good to go for al-Dulaimi’s compound in the morning. The man’s not taking ‘no’ for an answer this time.” Colby felt frustrated. They needed to get moving, and his people needed to understand. “I won’t take the risk of offending him, or looking like a coward. The man sent some of his people back home wrapped in tarps then sat down to do business with us, for God’s sake.” He could see that Bernie was also frustrated.
“It’s too soon, Tom. Can’t you see that? Let the country settle down first. We can keep the envoys running back and forth indefinitely. We’re building bridges. We’re making progress. We don’t have to get everything done this spring. You know what artificial timelines can do to an initiative.”
Colby felt the warming in his face. He knew he probably looked visibly angry and decided to just go with it.
“And what happens after we shut down for the summer, Bernie? I’ll tell you. Washington shifts into campaign mode. Nothing gets funded, nothing gets done, and there’s sure as hell going to be a power shift in Congress after November. After that all bets are off, and maybe our one chance to make a difference here is down the toilet. I won’t take that chance. I won’t let this go. It’s the first week of April already, and … we’re going. That’s the only practical choice at this point. We’re going, Bernie. Make the arrangements. Everyone else, get yourself saddled up. Meeting adjourned.”
His staff exchanged looks, picking up their notes and heading for the door with an enthusiasm that told him they were glad that he’d dismissed them. Kameldorn was the only one who looked … he couldn’t place the expression … resigned? No, Colby thought, Kameldorn was the only one who looked ready. He was the only one truly willing to go. Colby sat for a moment, letting himself calm down. The thought started eating into him.
The only one who really wanted to get to Anbar was someone who wasn’t supposed to be here in the first place—the man General McAllen, for his own purposes, had managed to insert into what had once been his team. Was it still his team, or were they McAllen’s unit now? Colby didn’t know anymore. All he knew was that the wheels were in motion, and he was going for a ride. They were rolling for Anbar Province.
The next morning was Tuesday, April 4. Anthony was glad for the double-decked arrangement of the Land Rover's cargo area, finding a place up top to stow his carry-on. The core team had limited themselves to a single bag each. The exception was Kameldorn, who exempted himself and added a second bag with a green metal ammunition can and an aluminum case, which he stowed in the most accessible parts of the lower cargo compartment. A smaller, zippered soft case fit under the driver’s seat. No one argued; instead, they stacked their luggage wherever else it could fit.
The word had come down that State would continue with Blackwater USA as its security contractor, at least for now. Kameldorn had arranged for a two-vehicle, eight-man escort with heavily reinforced Chevy Suburbans that would bracket their two white Land Rovers front and rear. Anthony knew nothing about communications but could see the antennae and other gear mounted atop the black vehicles. The contractors themselves seemed aloof from their State Department clientele. They were more conversational with Kameldorn.
They were a lot like McAllen's man, Anthony observed: the same general level of fitness and the same confidence and stance. They were even the same size or larger. The differences were that the Blackwater operatives were openly armed and armored: Kevlar vests strapped on over civilian clothes, low-mounted drop holsters and equipment bags strapped to their thighs, and each carrying a black rifle of some sort. Kameldorn, Anthony was sure, was also armed but less conspicuously so, blending into the State crew with his Dockers and sport coat.
Anthony could see that the Major was comparing notes with the Blackwater ops as they programmed the route turn-by-turn into the Suburbans' GPS units. Kameldorn had a set of new maps to use, not trusting the units’ accuracy. It was fine with him, Anthony decided. Anbar seemed the last place they would want to take the wrong fork in the road.
He would ride in the first of the two Land Rovers with Kameldorn, Colby and Schuster. The interpreters, two of Schuster’s locals, would be riding in the second with Katie and Marilyn. Colby was upbeat but edgy. He was making the rounds, getting some of them settled into the vehicles. It was now past noon, and though the drive was a mere sixty or so miles to the Second ID’s Camp Saif, there were usually a variety of delays encountered on Iraq’s highways.
Anthony waited in the loading area of the Al Rasheed. Colby came up to him wearing the first grin that he had seen on his face in the past few days. “How are you feeling, Jon?”
Anthony shrugged. “Trepidacious? I guess that would be the word.”
Colby nodded, opening a bottle of Gatorade. “Good word, trepidacious. I would have said wired. Pretty intense, these situations we get ourselves into.”
“You’re using the imperial we now, huh?”
Colby gave him a look that let him know he had hit a button. “OK, that I get us all into. Better?”
Anthony laughed. “You’re the boss, Tom. It comes with the territory. All the BS on the way, all the glory when it’s finished. You can handle it. You always could, the way I remember.”
“Yeah, still playing quarterback, I guess.” Colby looked over the line of vehicles again. “You about ready, Jon Wayne? That’s a terrible name for a cowboy, by the way.”
“I’m the consultant. Kameldorn is the cowboy.”
From his expression, Anthony could see that Kameldorn’s role on the team was on his friend’s mind. “Yeah, he would have fit in fine back then, don’t you think?” Colby agreed.
They saw Kameldorn folding his maps, finally satisfied that Blackwater would not get them lost between here and their destination. He came back to where they stood in the shade of the hotel.
“Ready to go, Tom. Whenever you are,” he said, sounding positive.
Colby looked around. “Need one more. Ah, there he is. Ready, Bernie?”
Schuster hurried to cram his bag into the back of the Land Rover. “Ready, boss. Just went over a few last-minute things with Carol. She ought to have more than enough for the troops to do until we get back.”
“Good man.” Colby slammed the hatch shut on the British SUV. The Blackwater operators were loading into the Suburbans. It was time. Kameldorn was driving, with Tom riding shotgun, Anthony saw. That left the back seat for himself and Schuster.
Anthony climbed in as Kameldorn fired up the 4.2l V-8, revving it appreciatively. He swiveled in the dri
ver’s seat. “Everybody buckled up?”
Colby grunted. “It’s State Department policy.”
Kameldorn laughed. “It’s also Iraqi highway survival policy. We could be going off-road for any number of reasons today.”
They laughed at that. It was mostly nervous laughter, Anthony thought.
Anthony saw that they were heading out of Baghdad on Highway 12. For roughly half of their journey it would share the roadbed with Highway 11, the Iraqi version of the Autobahn, a throughway that stretched from Baghdad to Syria. It was four- to six-lane divided highway for the entire stretch. Their route wound through the rubble that was once Fallujah, to Al Habbaniyah, Ramadi and beyond.
They waited through two delays for accidents in the first ten kilometers. Iraqi Highway Patrol, driving their new blue and white pickup trucks, Iraqi police, and military units all were helping clear them. Such wrecks had become more frequent—almost the norm—since the ban on automobile imports lifted in 2003.
They dutifully stuck to the posted 120-kmh speed limit, moving at roughly the same rate allowed on their own nation’s Interstate highways. The desert landscape alternated with the more lush greenery and date palms of the river valleys, first that of the Tigris until they were away from Baghdad, then the Euphrates as they approached Fallujah.
Most of the city lay destroyed from the ’04 offensive that had crippled the insurgency there, Anthony observed. They waited at several checkpoints along their route through Fallujah, Kameldorn occasionally pressing his earpiece to listen to the Blackwater ops as they spoke to the Iraqi forces operating them. The checkpoint to the new bridge over the Euphrates must have disturbed them, Anthony thought: it was in sight of the "Old Bridge," where the charred bodies of their fellow Blackwater employees were strung up after that ambush. Colloquially it became "Blackwater Bridge," according to what Kameldorn had told him. He could see Kameldorn was alert and had been since they had drawn near to the scarred city.
Reaching the west bank marked, roughly, the halfway point of their afternoon drive. Kameldorn remained tense, relaxing only after they emerged onto the open highway heading toward Al Habbaniyah. No one was talking much, Anthony realized. They were all reading preparatory material or looking out the windows at new country or for threats, or both. After all, this was not a family vacation, Anthony thought.