The Anvil of the Craftsman (Jon's Trilogy)

by Dale Amidei

  Anthony felt his heart turn over in his chest. “I can do that for them. I can do it for Tom. Will I be back?”

  “There will be some debriefings with the higher-ups at State. They want to hear the story too. In a way I’m glad that Tom is getting another shot at the legacy that he deserves. After that, the end of your contract is close enough to be your call. If you need a good word to anyone from me, just ask.”

  Anthony nodded. “Same here. It was good working with you. The bad things that happened won’t outweigh that. We were there because that’s what Tom wanted, and he was right. That’s what I’ll tell all of them I guess.”

  “Thanks, Jon.” Schuster stood, offering his hand. “Thanks for everything you did for us.”

  Anthony smiled. “You too, Bernie.”

  By the evening of Good Friday, April 14, Anthony was set to leave, granted a spare seat on a military C-17 Aerovac flight. He would have until midnight Monday to file a federal income tax extension, he reminded himself. Another military flight from Ramstein Air Base in Germany would carry him back to Andrews AFB in Washington, and he would be home for Holy Saturday and Easter. The Assistant Secretary would have a car waiting to meet him; his interviews would follow the visit with Tom’s family on Tuesday morning. After that, he did not know what he would do. He stood on the tarmac pondering the question as he had been since Bernie broke the news.

  “Hey, Doc,” he heard behind him.

  He turned to see Kameldorn standing, shaved and trimmed, in his officer’s blues. Accompanying him was Lieutenant General Peter McAllen, dressed in his Army greens. Anthony noticed Kameldorn’s silver oak leaf insignia and that the name at his right breast had undergone a transformation.

  Anthony peered at the matte nickel tag. It read "Colby." He looked at "Kameldorn/Colby" with the question in his eyes. The man grinned.

  “Lieutenant Colonel Jon Colby. Don’t worry, Doc. It won’t last long.”

  Anthony laughed. “No, probably not. General, I know you’re aware of what kind of man you have here.”

  “Everyone knows, son. Those who ‘need-to-know’ anyway,” the General said, smiling and officious. “We thought it appropriate to see you off.”

  “Thank you both. I do appreciate the gesture.”

  The tall Air Force officer smiled. “It might be more than just a gesture, Jon. It may be one last chance to provide some friendly advice.”

  “Advice?”

  McAllen nodded. “Heard tell your plans are a little up in the air, son.”

  Anthony cocked his head as he was prone to do when confused. “Somewhat, I have to admit, I guess.”

  “Mr. Anthony, do you have any idea how famous you are out there?” the General asked him.

  “Out where?”

  “Al Anbar. The Badlands.”

  “Huh?”

  "Kameldorn" smiled. “Understand why Matt Kameldorn had to be sunsetted? I’m lucky enough to have had a promotion in the works. Joint-duty and international status helped along the frocking request. It made Major Matt Kameldorn a ghost. You’re the American infidel who twisted the minds of the elders, Jon. They’re calling your presentation to the tribal leadership ‘the Britteridge heresy’ in their web propaganda now. They haven't fatwah'd you yet, but in practical terms that doesn't really matter.”

  Anthony knew that he must have developed an amusing look of realization on his face. McAllen grinned. “That’s right, son. You’re deep in it if they ever catch you back out there. You won’t last as long as a five-cent condom in a Saigon whorehouse.”

  "Kameldorn" continued. “Stay close to State, Jon, for a while anyway. If you need us to talk to anyone about that, just send the word through the Embassy. DC is full of metal detectors. They’ll never get near you there. That’s our two cents.”

  “Sounds more like a buck and a half. Thanks, Matt—John—or whoever you are.”

  The call came from the plane for the last boarding. It was his cue.

  “I gotta go.”

  They both shook his hand. McAllen nodded. “Good-bye, Mr. Anthony. It has been a pleasure.”

  The Air Force Lieutenant-Colonel-to-be agreed. “For me too, Doc. We won’t forget what you did for this country.”

  Anthony nodded, beyond words, and picked up his bags. He made it to the loading ramp in time. Directed by Air Force crewmembers to his seat, he belted himself in after stowing his luggage. He was on his way back home.

  The two officers watched the C-17 taxi and queue for the runway. The aircraft took off and banked to the west, into the red haze of the setting sun. The transport shot off flares until it achieved a safe ceiling and was gone. McAllen turned to his USSOCOM asset.

  “Lieutenant Colonel Colby, I have it on good authority that you can keep a secret.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Then I’d appreciate it if you’d join me back in my office to partake in a drink that Islamic law wouldn’t approve of. Product of Kentucky. Hate to drink it alone.”

  “Yes, sir. Seems appropriate.”

  They turned back toward the General’s car waiting on the tarmac. Their driver exited and stood at the rear door

  “Question, sir?”

  “Shoot.”

  “You think they’ll really go after him?”

  “Not if we keep them busy enough here. Sound like a plan to you?”

  “Yes, sir. That works for me.”

  The General’s driver opened and then closed the rear door for them once they climbed in. The General thought his officer looked pensive.

  “Problem, mister?”

  “Jon’s going home, sir. We’re going back where we belong.”

  “That’s why they call it ‘service,’ son,” McAllen remarked. Kameldorn nodded his solemn agreement as he buckled up. The word was always used with pride.

  Epilogue:

  The magnetic sign on his cubicle frame read "Jon Anthony / Analyst / Iraq Desk" although technically he was finishing his contract with Tom Colby. It was a budgetary maneuver. What Anthony did for a grieving woman and her daughters—telling them the story of Tom’s initiative to Al Anbar—resonated in his debriefing with the Assistant Secretary for Near Eastern Affairs afterward. It had the same effect there as well.

  ASECNEA herself had offered him the position after she heard from Colby’s heartbroken ex-wife. Anthony remembered well his last conversation with his military advisers and accepted the job instantly. The salary would be a nice bump up from his contract work although the expense money would disappear. An analyst gig would pay the bills, the rent and his student loan installments—balances knocked down considerably thanks to Tom.

  Anthony wrote, and he lectured, and his life was not terribly different from the one at Britteridge. He was happy. So were the people who worried about such things, like Dr. Stephen Mills and Christie Wilt. Even though he did not know what he would do with it, Anthony began to write down everything that he could remember about his trip overseas. It could become another dissertation; it became a thought that refused to go away.

  It was well into June when the knock on his cube entrance came from the petite, red-haired young woman from the mailroom. She brought his usual interoffice envelopes plus an International package, sent through the Baghdad Embassy. Briefly, he entertained the absurd thought of listening for ticking. He realized then that it must have passed inspection for explosives before acceptance into the diplomatic mail system.

  After he snipped through the tape and Bubble Wrap and some archival paper, Anthony found an envelope. It was sitting atop a folded and embroidered cloth with a dowel and silk hanging cord. It was an exquisite, hand-stitched piece. The needlework depicted the Islamic Crescent and Star with a long, curved sword beneath them. Flowing lines of Arabic script bordered with gold thread comprised the body of the piece. It was beautiful.

  The envelope contained the original letter in the same script; another sheet of more common paper imparted the translation thoughtfully provided by the Embassy. He began to read.


  “With respect; please accept this gift from His Excellency, Sheik Muhammad Zola al-Dulaimi, in deepest appreciation for your service to the peoples of Iraq and to the Province of Al Anbar. The script is a poem, written long ago by a man whom history has forgotten, yet his words remain as an heirloom of this house. It reads:

  “What of me? Torn from the womb of the Earth

  The Craftsman clashed his tool against me

  I lost the primordial dross that

  I had known since my beginning

  What remained of me

  was better than before

  He took me to the forge;

  there the fires were as hot as

  What had formed me

  uncounted years past

  The smoke ascended toward

  Heaven and carried

  The impurities vomited from within me

  What remained of me,

  there in the fire,

  was better than before

  The tongs came and took me to His anvil

  The hammer fell and the blows

  shook the center of the world

  Sparks flew from me and were lost

  What remained of me

  was better than before

  They shaped me,

  the files and stones without concern

  I left parts of me in shards

  and residue upon them

  Yet what remained of me

  was better than before

  He fitted me with fine accoutrements

  I am a purposeful Creation

  I have met my scabbard and I wait

  What He will have me do?

  I am no longer what I was

  What remains of me

  is better than before”

  Anthony was stunned. A few moments passed before he could read the words again. He folded the letter and put it carefully aside. Its words reminded him of what he had determined long ago: that the ideas he had promulgated in Al Anbar were not new. They had been set in the minds of men and women for as long as God had worked. They would continue to be while there were eyes to see, ears to hear, and mouths to speak. Anthony thought about the passage of years and people who had brought him to this moment. In a rush of adrenaline, he felt alive. He felt a light inside that no darkness could ever overcome. He thought he had mattered to the past. He felt essential to the future. But more than any of that and above all other emotions this moment stirred in him, he felt love … as something he knew would never end.

  ****

  A note from the author:

  The preceding is a work of fiction. It is a tribute to myriad heroic actions performed in the Iraqi theater by those serving in all capacities.

  In early June 2006, Abu Musab al-Zarqawi—then the most wanted man in Iraq—died with several others shortly after an air strike targeted his location. In August, Al Qaeda terrorists near Ramadi murdered Sheik Ali Abu Jassim, who had been working in support of the formation of the Iraqi police forces in the region. The assassins committed the further offense of hiding his body in a field rather than return it to his family for prompt burial as demanded by Sharia law. The sheiks of Anbar had finally seen enough.

  The subsequent movement they called “The Awakening.” American forces joined by tribal militias began to transform the Province. The insurgents’ fledgling Islamic State of Iraq found an overwhelming counterweight in the manpower and authority of the united tribal leadership. Through a series of actions that carried this momentum forward, what had once been the most troublesome province in Iraq slowly stabilized. Foreign influences in the region diminished. The Anbaris themselves took control of their destiny, working with the central government toward national unison. These events inspired The Anvil of the Craftsman.

  The work of seeking that accord in Iraq continues today. Any single volume cannot adequately represent the effort and amount of sacrifice that the labor has consumed as of this writing. While historians write in retrospect, we forecast with accuracy proportional to our wisdom. The makings of history come to their entirety at the end of things. All ever said, done and written will close their circles. All that is returns to the Source … and passes back under the Hand and Eye of the Craftsman.

  And if I may:

  Independent authors have no advertising budget or promotion department outside of our own efforts. If you enjoyed this novel, please tell other readers. An honest review posted online is the lifeblood of an e-book such as this one. The number and quality of a title’s reviews prime a retailing website’s engine, presenting it to a greater number of visitors who may be browsing for their next read. I will be grateful.

  The drafting of and revisions to The Anvil of the Craftsman demanded uncounted hours of labor to write, edit, format and otherwise produce this title. It might have been released in a lesser form in many fewer months, but that would have been a betrayal of the work and reduced the quality of my readers’ experience. If you came to this e-book by means other than commerce, or if you enjoy my work and hope to see more, you may provide patronage using any major credit card via PayPal on my website: http://www.daleamidei.com/donate.html

  In any event, I am glad you took the time to read The Anvil of the Craftsman. That in itself is a gift from you to me. If I never have a chance to say it in person: Thank You.

  Choose to Love. -Dale Amidei

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