The Great and Terrible

by Chris Stewart

  Neil Brighton shivered, cold running down his spine.

  His instincts were screaming. No, this was more than that. This wasn’t just his instincts. The Spirit was shouting at him: Danger. There is danger. He shivered again.

  The idea of danger led his thoughts again to Sam and the Cherokees who would be recruiting him within the week. The unit was so secret that even the code name was classified and changed every three months to keep Congress and the press at bay. They were a top-secret Special Forces unit that worked on the razor edge of the law. Some would argue that what they did was illegal (the U.N. would certainly say that it was), for they slipped across the borders of both friends and foes, operating in countries against which the U.S. was not at war. And they did things, they got to people, that no one ever talked about—no one in the military, no one in the administration or Congress, certainly no one in the press. They operated in Israel, Europe, and Pakistan. They operated in Tajikistan, southwestern China, and Saudi Arabia as well.

  They were the best America had to offer, her most valiant sons, willing to sacrifice and suffer to take peace to the most dangerous parts of the world.

  The general shook his head sadly.

  Was it a good use of fine men? Sometimes he wondered. It wasn’t clear anymore.

  He frowned and looked up, staring through his bullet-proof window at the deep White House lawn. What had brought them to this moment? Why had it come to this? Things had accelerated so quickly, and they were accelerating still.

  The world was spinning. Would it ever regain control?

  Chapter Nine

  Camp Freedom

  West of Baghdad, Iraq

  The night after Sam Brighton had taken the call from his father, his team had been tasked to do a night recon on some suspect houses in Northern Baghdad, but the mission had been aborted due to lack of helicopter transports to infiltrate the team. As a result, Sam spent the night in his bed, under his covers when it was dark, quiet, and cool, instead of having to sleep in the middle of the day, with the light, heat, and noise. He got a good night’s rest, something he hadn’t enjoyed in more than two weeks.

  Next morning he woke early, ate some breakfast, cleaned his gear, swept the tent floor (a completely pointless thing to do), waited in line for a nonclassified computer to send some emails (he mostly communicated with his other army buddies scattered around the world), then went down to the unit Operations Center to see what was going on.

  Entering the enormous tent, Sam felt the cool air. Outside, the morning sun had already grown hot, and the air-conditioned tent was a welcome relief. The Ops Center was stuffed with loads of electronic and communications gear—satellite telephones, GPS receivers, more than two dozen portable computers, hand-held devices, UHF radios to talk with the unit’s helicopter pilots and ground crews, FM radios to talk with the ground troops when they were in combat on the ground—and all of this equipment demanded cool, clean air. The desert was excruciatingly hard on men, equipment, and machines, and it was a constant effort to keep everything from choking on the sand and dust.

  The Ops C. was quiet; only a few soldiers were there. None of the unit’s combat teams had been tasked with combat excursions, so, except for a few standard security patrols in the small towns along the road between Camp Freedom and the airport, everyone had a little time to catch up on things. For a moment, Sam wondered what day it was. He glanced at his watch, a military issue black dial with the date and time: 9:36, Sunday morning. Now, wasn’t that nice, he thought, the Sabbath was being honored, even in a war zone. Coincidence? Absolutely. But a nice one all the same.

  He looked past the communications consoles in the middle of the room and spotted Joseph “Bono” Calton, a dark-skinned lieutenant who was one of his very best friends.

  Bono was relatively old for a lieutenant. For one thing, he’d converted to the LDS Church as a senior in high school (despite the objections of his father, a devout believer in the Great Church of the Money and Having More than the Other Guy Down the Street), then served a mission, spending two years walking up and down hopeless apartment buildings in Germany, preaching the gospel in a country where it seemed that no one really cared. Then, despite the fact that his parents were wealthy, Bono had insisted on supporting himself through school. Fiercely independent of their money, he worked a series of menial jobs, seeming to take great pride in waiting tables and janitoring at a local school in order to pay his own way. The result of his independence was that he hadn’t graduated until he was twenty-five, whereupon he had immediately joined the army. Many times Bono had wondered aloud which had disappointed his father more, when he had joined the army or the Mormon church? Now a Special Forces officer, he was a poster boy for the twenty-first-century soldiers fighting an unconventional war—fluent in Arabic and German, an expert marksman, equally good with a sophisticated GPS computer and in hand-to-hand combat with a knife. And he seemed to have the endurance of a mule—he could hike for twelve hours without stopping to rest. Most important, with his dark skin and dark eyes, he could blend in perfectly with the local populace. Sam had always wondered why his friend was so dark-skinned, but once he had seen a picture of Bono’s mother, a beautiful Moroccan his father had met while spending a summer in Northern Africa, he understood.

  Three and a half years out of college, the lieutenant had just celebrated his twenty-eighth birthday, though he looked a bit older, with his dark face and sharp eyes. Having grown up in L.A. and graduated from one of the rich-kid high schools they made prime-time soap operas about, if anyone had an excuse to be spoiled, Bono certainly did. Sam knew that his dad had made a zillion dollars in the dot-com craze, getting out when the getting was good and settling down to a life of tennis, margaritas, and investing his cash. But when it came to money, Bono seemed completely uninterested. The only thing he really ever talked about was his family, and sometimes Sam got tired of looking at pictures of the two beautiful blondes, one his daughter, one his wife. Maybe he was only jealous—it was painfully clear the lieutenant had something special that he did not have.

  Like a lot of guys in the unit, the lieutenant had several nicknames: Sniper (for his shooting), Abu (his dark features), the Mule (his flat-foot plodding). But most called him Bono for his inexplicable attachment to a brand of cheap Korean running shoes. Still, he was such an imposing figure that none of the enlisted guys dared call him anything but lieutenant to his face. And in a formal setting or in combat everyone called him “sir.”

  It hadn’t taken more than a few days for Brighton and the lieutenant to become very good friends. They were alike—dedicated, fearless, both with a bit of attitude. And both were in the army because they loved the fight and believed in the cause. Sam knew that Bono could have followed in his father’s tracks, taken over his business affairs and spent Wednesdays mornings on the golf course and Friday nights at the club. He also knew that Bono would just as soon drive splinters of wood under his fingernails as spend his life behind a desk.

  In this one thing the two men were the same. They were driven by ambition, but not by ambition for cash.

  Bono hadn’t yet noticed Sam standing near the doorway, so he kept his head down, concentrating on his work. In the quiet of the empty Operations Center, Sam’s thoughts drifted back.

  * * *

  Sam’s Delta unit had been bouncing in and out of Iraq, Pakistan, and Afghanistan (as well as several “non-host nations,” where they had not been invited and were definitely not supposed to be) for more than three years. As one of the Army’s most highly trained and versatile units, the Deltas went where they were called, which meant they spent a lot of their time on the road. While most army combat units were eventually assigned more-or-less permanent facilities for their living quarters, some of the more fortunate ones even ending up in former palaces of the ruling elites, the Deltas were not usually so lucky. Knowing they were far more mobile and in high demand, they didn’t spend a lot of time worrying about their living conditions. That seemed fr
uitless and wasteful. They were Deltas, after all—they didn’t need air conditioning or swimming pools. They needed clean weapons, lots of drinking water, and a mission every night.

  Bono had been assigned to Sam’s unit just five months before. Sam clearly remembered the day he had been tasked to pick up the new lieutenant at the airport in Baghdad, where he watched Bono climb down the makeshift ramp from the enormous 747, a contract carrier ferrying soldiers in and out of the country. Sam took him to Camp Freedom and showed him his tent (which had become suddenly available when the previous captain had been killed by a sniper while out on patrol), then helped him unpack his gear and showed him around.

  On the afternoon of that first day, Sam sat in the corner of the Ops Center, watching the young lieutenant work.

  Like any organization, the U.S. Army had its share of weak, cowardly, selfish, ignorant, and truly bad officers. But such men never made it into combat positions, or, if they did, they were quickly removed. Men’s lives were on the line, the chain of command understood that, and no one suffered fools in a combat zone. Indeed, the men who volunteered for and achieved the status of combat officer were some of the best that the U.S. had to offer. But still, there were variations in their capacities to lead. There were good officers and great officers, brilliant leaders and others who were not as talented or creative. Sam was instantly curious which kind of officer the new lieutenant would be.

  It generally took the enlisted men a few days, maybe even just a few hours, to evaluate their new platoon leaders, and their first impressions almost always proved to be uncannily accurate. Sam was better than most at evaluating his leaders, so, knowing he would be working with the lieutenant for the next eight months or so, he set about to watch him and learn what he could. He watched how Bono took care of his equipment, how he spoke to the men—both the senior officers around him and the men under him. He listened to the tone of his voice and the things that he said. He noted the things he carried around in his pockets and the optional equipment he had.

  On the evening of Bono’s first day, the regiment commander pulled Sam aside. “What do you think?” he asked in a whisper, nodding toward the newest lieutenant in his outfit.

  Sam stared at the back of Bono’s head. “He keeps a military-issued Bible in his chest pocket all the time. He collects knives and switchblades. Got more than a dozen in

  all. He’s got a drop-dead gorgeous wife and he pulls out her picture every chance that he gets. And he’s got a tiny, pearl-handled .22 strapped to the inside of his calf, a cheesy little thing that isn’t going to kill anyone unless he shoots them point-blank. Looks like something he might have picked up in Harlem for thirty bucks and some crack. But it’s only three inches long and real easy to conceal.”

  The commander waited, not knowing. “So . . . ?” he pressed.

  “I like him,” Sam answered. “In fact, I like him a lot. He’s thorough. He’s careful. But he’s not afraid to act. He likes his family, and that keeps him from being too stupid, but it’s pretty clear he’s not afraid to get in a fight. So yeah, I like him. This is a guy I would go to battle with.”

  The lieutenant colonel nodded and smiled. “Good. You got him, then,” he said. “Show him the ropes for a few days. I’m not reassigning you from Captain Rogers’s unit, I just want you to work with him for a while, is all.”

  “Sure, sir. But then, if it turns out that he and I work well together, maybe you would consider assigning me to the lieutenant’s squad permanently.”

  “Not bloody likely,” the commander shot back. “I need you with Rogers. You are too important to him.”

  * * *

  Three nights later, Bono had been sent on his first patrol. As the highest ranking enlisted man in the squad, Sam stayed close to his side.

  It was just after sunset. There were four of them in a battle-hardened HUMVEE, the standard military personal transport that had, since the first year of the war in Iraq, been reinforced with thick armor walls and floor. Years before, when the U.S. had first invaded Iraq, the soldiers had been forced to compensate for the inadequate armor in the original HUMVEE design by piling sandbags on the floor and strapping scrap iron to the sides. It was the only way they could think of to protect themselves from the seemingly unstoppable roadside bomb attacks that occurred every day. The terrorists had proven ingenious, even brilliant, the U.S. generals had been forced to admit. Taking the path of least resistance, the terrorists (Sam refused to call them insurgents; anyone who primarily targeted innocent Iraqi civilians—women, school children, old men sweeping sand off the streets, young mothers carrying their babies while waiting for the bus—was clearly a terrorist and not worthy of any other name) had learned how to hide among the civilians, how to hit and then run. They had two primary weapons: suicide bombers and, for those not yet willing to have a face-to-face conversation with their Maker, what the U.S. press called IEDs, Improvised Explosive Devices, or simply roadside bombs. The local troops called them dead REDs, or Remotely Exploded Devices. These ingeniously improvised roadside bombs could be made of almost any explosive material, including old mortar shells, plastic explosives, grenades, and nails packed around TNT. Most of the detonators were activated through cell phones, and the battle tactics were simple: plant the device, hide, wait until a U.S. convoy or Iraqi government vehicle drove by, dial the cell number, and watch the enemy get blown to bits. On Sam’s first tour to Iraq, at a time when the Iraqi government was fully functioning though still in its early days, the terrorist cells had been using dead REDs on an almost daily basis. In fact, on Sam’s first day in the country, even while riding from the airport, his convoy had been attacked by a roadside bomb. No one had been hurt, but a lot of sand had been blown in the air. A quick investigation of his good fortune revealed that the terrorist had panicked and called the cell phone number too late, causing the powerful, double-packed mortar shell to explode after the convoy had passed. Phone records would indicate he had nervously dialed two wrong numbers before finally getting it right, allowing time for the convoy to pass. But still, the sound of the explosion had proven a lousy welcome to the country.

  Though Sam and the others would laugh about it many times, each of them, inside their guts, hated to wonder.

  Two wrong numbers, and they had lived. One good dialer, and they might have died. How many of their nine lives had been sucked up on that one?

  It was all so unpredictable.

  That first night with Bono, while driving away from Camp Freedom, Sam had slapped the side of his new HUMVEE as he drove. The HUMVEE was heavy with its extra armor and a full load of weapons and fuel, and it felt slow and cumbersome under his hand.

  With the new lieutenant sitting at his side, Sam kept his eyes moving, his head constantly swiveling from one side to the other. The sun had set, and it became dark as only the desert can be, a sort of eerie, moonlit twilight that emphasized the shadows and created fleeting ghosts of gray and black that seemed to run across the road.

  Earlier in the day, a couple of Apache attack helicopters had reported that a single anti-aircraft missile had been launched toward them from a small cluster of shacks and tin-roofed, cinder-block shanties on a tiny peninsula near the Tigris River. There had never been any reports of hostile action in the area—the small village was inhabited by dying fishermen and their old women, the younger generations having been taken either to serve in the army or to be servants in the city many years before—and none of the Apache’s defensive systems had detected the presence of a radar-guided missile, but because one of the pilots had insisted he had seen a smoky trail coming toward him before falling out of range, Bono and his team had been sent to investigate.

  The men approached the village along the winding, dirt road that followed the bends in the Tigris. The land was marshy here, with cattails and reeds growing higher than a man could see, and the water was slow and brackish and heavy with silt. The fishing had once been good here, but that was years before, and the small village, never more
than an Iraqi dinar above the poverty line, had fallen into abject destitution over the past generation or so.

  Approaching the village, Bono commanded Sam to bring the HUMVEE to a stop before venturing onto the marshy peninsula. It was maybe three thousand meters to the village, about two miles or so. Bono got out of the HUMVEE and stood near the front wheel, studying the village through his night vision goggles. Sam opened his door and followed until he was standing at his side. Staring through the goggles, Bono could see the common fire flickering between the shanties and a few old men standing near, but that was about all. He dropped his glasses and listened. The birds had fallen silent, but they never cried at night, and the only sound to be heard was the water lapping gently against the marshy shore.

  Bono turned to Sam. “You realize, of course, there’s no way to approach the village without announcing our coming.”

  Sam nodded as he studied the sandy road that led to the village. It was pitted with mud holes and deep ruts, with broken branches and dead palm leaves lying across the rough track. Years might have passed since a vehicle had been driven down this road, and it would take them some time, maybe five or ten minutes, to navigate across the marsh to the village. He glanced back at the HUMVEE. It was a great machine, powerful and heavy, but loud. Very loud. Built to carry men into combat, there was nothing stealthy about this vehicle. Its enormous diesel engine belched like a locomotive, maybe louder, and with sometimes more smoke.

  “Think they’ve heard us already?” Sam asked the lieutenant.

  Bono shook his head and nodded at the night air. “Wind is blowing towards us. They haven’t heard anything.”

  “We could hoof it to the village.”

  Bono thought. “Don’t think we should,” he said. “We need the protection the HUMVEE has to offer. Especially since there’s just four of us and being out here, where there’s no cover but this reed grass. We’ve got no backups, no artillery or air patrols. Who knows what we’d be walking into? According to the Apache pilot, there’s an entire battalion of surface-to-air missiles hiding in the village. Do I believe that? Not at all. But I’m not willing to bet on the lives of my men. Not going to risk it. Too dangerous right now.”