by Clay Martin
Paul gave us the run down, which was basically a formality given the collective history of my guys. I was a fully badged 18F, or Special Forces Intelligence Sergeant, Frank had spent most of his career on “long hair” intel teams, and Scott and Willie were far from wet behind the ears. Would we kindly report anything out of the ordinary, use fake plate and vehicle descriptions should we need to refuel Paul’s trucks, and let him meet his sources outside our back gate if the need arises? No problem buddy. Would you kindly give us some government sanctioned air power if we start getting over run, and let us know if we are standing in the path of a turf war? Can do easy. Our radios were incompatible, and it was well outside Paul’s mandate to supply us with crypto. Instead, he gave us a new agency toy that was a wonder. Named Venona Tempest, or VT for short, the toy was an app for either phones or computers. VT could use either cell networks or HF radio to transmit secure messages using public and private key encryption. The public key was like an address, so messages were routed to the correct receiver. The private key did the decryption, ensuring only the intended user could unlock the message. The messages were limited to roughly twitter sized 160 character messages, but that was good enough. Pictures smaller than two megapixel could also be sent, though it took a while in HF mode. The real benefit here was the HF radio part. Unlike our regular spectrum radios, an HF radio could reach anywhere on Earth with the right antenna. HF was used by Ham Radio nerds to do just that on a daily basis. HF was ancient technology, but it did tend to work when all the fancy stuff failed. I was fortunately old school enough to have cut my teeth on HF as a radioman. One off the shelf Ham Radio later, courtesy of my new Agency pals, I was practicing my antenna theory again in my down time. It beat knitting.
To the West of us, our closest other Americans, was a small firebase manned by an ODA (Operational Detachment Alpha) from 5th Group. They had been tasked with rebuilding a battalion of Iraqi troops, the same clowns that had melted in the face of the ISIS onslaught not that many years before. To say they were jaded was an understatement, but they were doing the best job they could. Scott and I did the secret SF handshake after crossing paths on a patrol one day, after which they became regular visitors at the 7/11. They were beyond the range of our normal patrols, so it was generally them coming to us. We had enough bunks to be able to tie on a powerful drunk and not force our guests to sleep in their trucks, and the respite from normal duties was good for both of us. They were a mix of old and new hands, with the old guys trying like hell to make twenty. A few of them had been with the Iraqi Counter Terrorism Forces in the glory days, actually doing hand offs with Scott and later me, though none of them were recognizable. The change overs had been fast and furious back then. We talked for hours about the old times, running and gunning across all of Iraq with the Iraqi Counter Terrorist Forces (ICTF). The Battle of Baghdad in 07, how the ICTF had stopped ISIS cold at Ramadi, though abandoned by all the regular forces. And how difficult the ODA’s present task was, turning a battalion of bricks into something resembling a military fighting force. Somehow Scott even managed to trade for a 300 Winchester Magnum Mk13, which we had to return before the ODA left country. Like many of us had in the past, they were casually ignoring the mandate to create a battalion sniper platoon. It just didn’t seem prudent, given the present political climate.
As contractors often elect their own leaders, I became de facto boss of COP Cramer. It certainly wasn’t my innate leadership ability, and Scott or Willie could rightly claim more experience. Mostly it was temperament. I do a lot of things wrong, but I do have a tendency to remain cool at all times. It takes a lot to get me really angry, well beyond the usual guy that does violence for a living. Between that and my propensity for fairness, it just kind of happened. Along with my new call sign, which per the custom of SF, was also an insult. “Mother Hen”, shortened to “Mother”, had the helm at the 7/11, and everything was going to be alright. Or so we thought.
CHAPTER THREE
The days turned into weeks, which turned into months, which turned into a cliché. We pumped gas twice a week, we patrolled often enough to keep a howitzer battery from setting up on us, and tried to maintain our sanity. Using our locally purchased internet connection, we maintained something like contact with the outside world. As soldiers, we often talked about guns and equipment. Now we watched our stocks and talked about money. Politics went from bad to worse, so much so that I didn’t even bother to check the news anymore. I just needed the dollar to stay strong enough for the next six months to buy my mountain top, then I didn’t give a damn what happened.
The armored trucks gave me a bad case of claustrophobia, it felt entirely too much like cramming myself into a sardine can. My last combat tour had been at the trail edge of the armored Humvee development, and even then, most of us still rode in the open back. In theory the armor would protect you from small arms, but in reality it also had a bad habit of mangling in roadside bombs. This had the negative side effect of leaving you to burn alive in a hopelessly twisted ball of steel, futilely kicking the door until your boots melted to your skin or smoke inhalation finally overcame you. Such thoughts were never far from my mind when I was looking through my two inches of bulletproof glass, waiting on the trash heap or false section of curb that would be my end. They did have the added bonus of air conditioning, so I could imagine my fiery death in relative comfort.
Fortunately, IED’s had largely gone out of vogue, at least in our sector. Or maybe they were saving them for better targets. Mostly what we dealt with was the occasional mortar round, and those were usually badly lobbed. I developed a theory that the local militia’s let the new guys practice on us, warming them up for the fight against the Sunnis over in the West. We would respond with what we knew to be ineffective machine gun fire, and an aggressive immediate rolling response to a plausible firing point. It was a high stakes game of cat and mouse. They might have sucked with the indirect fire, but they only had to get lucky once on a fuel depot. We had almost no chance of ever picking the correct firing point, but if we did, we would easily be able to massacre the gun crew. A stalemate ensued, with no one really wanting to up the ante.
The day humankind almost ceased to exist was like any other. Willie and I had just come off a six hour patrol, covering enough ground to really be looking forward to a shower. No armor seals tight enough to keep out the moon dust of Eastern Iraq, and we were absolutely covered head to toe from being in the middle of a three truck convoy. We liked our Kurds, but if anyone was going to eat a buried anti-tank mine, well, we didn’t get paid enough for that. In sha Allah, the guys that live their whole lives believing in fate can go first. Back inside the safety of the wire, I was stripping my armor off, my helmet already sitting on the hood. My phone chirped, a text from Paul.
Voice comms up?
Double checking that I had my Iraqna chip in the phone, best for voice in this area, I dialed him.
“Your medic at the base today?” he said without an introduction. That wasn’t a fun way to start a call, it usually meant someone was shot up.
“He’s here, but we don’t have a lot in the way of med supplies. What’s the crisis? How many hit?” I was already moving toward Frank’s hooch. The more he could glean from my side of the call, the faster he could start prepping for triage.
“No one’s hit, no trauma. But my Ranger is sick, running a bad fever, and I don’t think I can get him all the way to Nasiriya before the weather closes in.” Baghdad was actually closer in direct distance, but traversing the traffic of a major city would indeed make it take longer. This also told me Paul wasn’t concerned enough to call in a medevac chopper, something he could still do with his official government status.
“Yeah, my guy can probably handle it then. And what weather? You know something I should know Comanche?” I defaulted to call signs on the phone. Even if the Iraqi Government couldn’t fully intercept cell traffic, which was doubtful, Iran and the Russians certainly co
uld. In fact, I had it on pretty good authority the Russians owned the internet hubs in Iraq too. I always made sure to keep my email traffic vague.
“Jesus, you didn’t hear? The whole eastern half of the country is under a haboob warning. Suppose to be a bad one. You should really try working for people that care about you more.”
“Yeah, I’ll get on that. Right after I hit the Powerball, and the Hawaiian Tropic girls drop by here on a USO stop.”
“That’s what I like best about you Mother. Always an optimist. I’m 45 out, see you shortly.”
“Thank you come again” I hit him with my best Simpson’s Apu voice, and hung up. Haboob, peachy.
To those that have not experienced a Middle Eastern dust storm, it is hard to describe just how much they suck. The winds are often only about 60 mph, but it feels much worse. Since the environment is mostly super fine “moon dust”, standing outside in one is like being in a sandblaster. Given enough time, they actually will rip your skin off. You have to turn off your air-conditioners and tape the vents, or else the units will self-destruct. Any crack or opening in a building will be found, and after a while it hurts to breathe, even indoors. Aircraft won’t fly in them, no matter the need. If you have any sense, you spend a haboob inside your hooch, with all the doors and windows duct taped shut. The only positive was that the chances of getting attacked in the middle of one was zero. Nobody on Earth could navigate in one, at anything beyond dead reckoning an azimuth. I had seen them so bad you literally couldn’t see your hand in front of your face.
Waiting for Paul to arrive, I called a rapid meeting of my Americans, and the Kurdish leadership. Willie hit Baghdad on the SATCOM, which did indeed confirm we could expect the storm to hit anytime in the next two hours. They were very sorry for neglecting to ensure we got that information, which is a nice way of saying they simply forgot us. That was at least something I was accustomed to after my military career.
Frank was already busy in the med shack, doing whatever it is medics do. I suspect inventorying Tetris shapes on his phone, given his experience with trauma and my description of our inbound patient. But you are allowed to act like a Diva when you are a Diva, so I didn’t bug him as we started sand storm prep work.
“It’s been a while since I saw a haboob, and the weather dorks say this has the potential to be an epic one. Obviously I am not concerned about an attack in the middle of one, but we won’t know exactly when it lifts. I recommend we put four men to a tower, with food and water. Sleeping kit too, and tape for the seams. Power will necessarily be out, we can’t run the generators either. Can you organize that Bazan? I direct the last part at Bazan, the closest I had to a ranking Kurd. The contact specified manager, but Major felt closer to correct.
“No problem boss. I get the man in the tower, bing bang boom” He returned in passable English, clapping his hands on the last part and smiling widely. With sixteen of his twenty guys in towers, and two others likely on another detail, he knew he would be riding the storm out with me, and therefore my Jameson stash. Oh, the burden of command. The sacrifices really bring a tear to your eye sometimes.
“Awesome. Scott, can you shut down the generators, and do you need any help?” Scott was the closest thing I had to a mechanic, since one of his hobbies was modifying his jeep back in the real world. I think it spent more time on the rack than the trail, but he did know what he was doing.
“Can do easy. Spare set of hands would be nice, it will go a lot faster if I don’t have to depend on ole lefty here.” Scott was already grabbing duct tape and plastic bags out of the supply locker.
“Nemo, always jockeying to a supervisors position. Are you sure you were never a Warrant Officer?” I had to get a jab in when I could, Scott was quick with the wit most days. Always best to do so when he was distracted with a real task. Nemo was his call sign, after the Disney cartoon, an obvious barb about his mangled left hand. “Take Bazan’s left overs, but be quick about it. Bazan, best English guys for Scott.” Scott shot me the bird as he shoved his supplies in a backpack.
“Willie, that’s you and me then to string a rope between the med shed, the chow hall, and our TOC.” The TOC was our Tactical Operations Center, at least in theory. Old habits die hard, the word TOC would indicate we were doing anything tactical. Mostly it was a glorified radio room, with some maps on the wall, and some sofas. We tried to stay by the radio as often as we could, but it wasn’t like being in the real Army. It wasn’t a requirement that we man it 24 hours a day. Still, being close to it let us keep an ear to the ground, and by default, it became our usual hang out spot. The ropes were the only way of ensuring we could travel between the three in the sand storm. A hand on the rope, or better yet a carabiner on your belt snapped into it, would keep you from getting lost. A bad enough storm, it was entirely possible to wander around your own tiny compound until you died. “Did I miss anything?”
Willie chimed in, “Worst haboob I have ever seen lasted four days, best we prepare for slightly longer. Let’s drag some bunks into the chow hall, we can sleep there. Hooches will turn into easy bake ovens without the power anyway.”
That was a valid point. Our living quarters were CHU rooms, or containerized housing units. Often called the tactical trailer park, the CHU was ubiquitous across Iraq. It looked exactly like a tin shoebox, usually five feet wide by twelve feet long. The door and window were on the short side, and they were bolted together to make blocks of any length you liked. It was said they could also be double stacked tall, though I had never seen that. Leave it to the DOD to send American’s to war in micro sized camping trailers. The CHU was great for quick housing solutions, and offered a level of privacy unseen in any other war at any time. But the sheet metal walls wouldn’t stop a Red Ryder BB gun, and they became stifling sweat boxes the second the air conditioning went out. The TOC or ops cen was a plywood building with a 10 foot roof, it would be a lot more comfortable.
Just then, Frank burst in the door, dragging a large plastic box, backpacks on his front and back.
“Jesus, Frank, not really the time for a garage sale” I said to him with a smirk.
“I’m not spending a potentially multi-day haboob holding hands with a dying man in a roaster pan. My med shed is too small to circulate air with the door sealed. Besides, if he is contagious, Paul and his crew already have it too. Unless you plan to quarantine them, we might as well all be in here. Maybe one of you knuckle dragging idiots can play nursemaid too, learn something for your trouble.” Medics are notorious for telling you how they deserve more pay than everyone else, usually about the time they are patching up your stupidity. And when you have pieces of you on the outside of your skin that should never see daylight, you tend to agree with them. There is a time to tell your medics how the cow ate the cabbage, but this didn’t look like one of them.
“Alright, Princess, you can have a sleep over. Anything else from your shed?” Even when they are making sense, a smart leader takes shots at his medics on principle. Just to keep them on their toes.
“Yep. My table and IV stands. Best not to do this on the floor like savages if we don’t have to.”
I walked into that one. The patient table was heavy, I had already helped Frank re-arrange his shop once. Me and my stupid mouth. “That’s not what your mom said,” I quipped as I ducked out the door, barely dodging a roll of gauze.
Not long after Willie and I finished Frank’s move, in rolled a tinted windowed Suburban. On my orders, men on the gate didn’t even stop them. Paul and his associate Jim popped out of the front, moving to the driver’s side rear to help the last of the team out of the truck. Paul’s Ranger was a giant named Alan, easily six foot five and two eighty. We just called him Ranger as a matter of course, since he was the only one around. His relative youth implied that he also had limited service time, no way the kid was over twenty-five when most of us were past forty. How he ended up with Paul’s crew, I had no idea. Rangers a
re not known as the smartest guys around, in fact mostly they are known for hitting things with a hammer exceedingly well. Ranger smash! Compounded with this one’s immense size, I had no idea what he was doing out here in the employee of the agency. Maybe they used him to squish the skulls of the guys that wouldn’t talk. Whatever he was for, today Ranger Alan was a mess. Paul and Jim looked like kids trying to support him as they pulled him out of the Suburban, and I was thankful they were able to get his legs under him. This wouldn’t have been a fun stretcher carry, even the 30 feet into the TOC.
At Frank’s direction, the four of us got him maneuvered onto the table. It was also made for a normal sized man, so his legs hung off the end. Frank went to work with his tools, checking his temperature and heart rate while quizzing Paul. Ranger Alan was pale and sweating buckets, way too delirious to answer any questions of his own. Paul was clearly not accustomed to being asked about his whereabouts anymore, and had to focus to keep from being evasive. Willie and I went outside, hoping to make Paul a little more comfortable about the OPSEC. A few minutes later, he joined us.
“Thanks for giving us some shelter from the storm. I owe you one. You guys need any help?” he asked.
Willie and I were taping the door seals on our trucks. Save us some detailing work later.” The rest of the 240s still need to come off of these turrets, so you can start with that. Then I recommend you guys grab some lickies and chewies from the chow hall for tonight. We have mostly dark booze, so grab your mixers accordingly.”