Cold Snap

by J. Clayton Rogers

  This was the role Ghaith had assumed the week after the Blackwater contractors had been slain and put up for display. Since then, the West had repeatedly expressed its horror each time the networks repeated the video. The Americans had rattled their sabers, but very little had been done in the way of reprisals. Roads were blocked, concertina wire strung out across lesser exits and the city had been subjected to a night of aerial bombardment. The earth shook as giant bulldozers heaved great berms out of the soil. Which was amusing, because the insurgents had bulldozers of their own, and were planning to bar any enemy incursion with great earthen walls. But that was pretty much it. The 1st Marine Expeditionary Force fumed on the outskirts while Washington dithered. Commentators observed that the contractors had ignored Army advice to swing around Fallujah and had tried to barrel their way through the center of town. Their hubris had landed them in Hell, or wherever it was that the godless ended up. Ghaith would no doubt have them as neighbors once he was tits up.

  He was presenting himself to the Saray al-Jihad Group as a former captain in the dispersed Iraqi Army. Like any true veteran of the Republican Guard, he thundered against the Americans, the British, the French, the Poles and every other member of the Coalition. What a blasphemous lot they were. Cowardly, too, shielding their soft bodies behind steel and concrete barricades.

  Saray al-Jihad was small potatoes. It answered to the Mujahideen Shura Council, which had made itself the central authority for resistance against the invaders. Comprised of strict Wahabists and led by Abdullah al-Janabi, they would have spotted Ghaith's godless taint in an instant. And by all means Ghaith had to avoid Abu Musab al-Zarqawi, a certifiable nut case who almost put Abu Nidal and bin Laden in the shade. Members of Saray al-Jihad were devout, no mistake, but what they really wanted to do was kill kafirs, unbelievers, preferably of the American military persuasion. They suited Ghaith's temper and intentions. He could keep the general apprised of events—and, after what had happened to Rana and his boys, he was not at all averse to getting some Yankee blood on his hands.

  But the interviewers of the Saray Council were not entirely impressed, the general feeling being that the Iraqi Army leaned on the chickenshit side. But that was a good thing, too, else wise the various insurgencies would have been wiped out long before the arrival of the West.

  He saw at least two men from the Hammurabi Division hovering at the back of the mayor's office. He could not tell if they recognized him, but none of the parties was inclined to denounce the other as a cowardly deserter. Besides, the insurgents' collective sneer was strictly pro forma. There must be hundreds of ex-soldiers in Fallujah still wetting their beds at the memory (still too fresh) of American airstrikes against their armored columns on Highway 27. It had amounted to a second Highway of Death.

  But Ghaith claimed to have been an officer. He carried himself like an officer. Some of interviewers seemed put out by this captain's air of supreme composure, like someone accustomed to being obeyed. He possessed a charisma that did not require threats or torture or endless repetition of the patriotic and religious platitudes that nearly destroyed clerical vocal chords.

  Ghaith presented the Saray Council with a two-edged sword. Just down the road the 82nd Airborne, 1st MEF and other units were booting up for a hard strike at the city. The persistent buzz of remote surveillance aircraft overhead informed the residents that the enemy was surveying Fullajah's intimate alleyways and souks, mapping a sure course for their civic throat. Officers familiar with American tactics and how to oppose them should be a precious commodity. But the Council had had its fill of Ba'athist know-it-alls who placed expertise (such as it was) over holy doctrine. Those old army die-hards were universally opposed to the often haphazard methods of the mujahideen. Put one of them in charge, and he would usurp the authority of the true leaders.

  Ghaith wanted to advise the Council that they should not prolong this meeting. In addition to the three sitting at the table, tilting back and forth as they consulted one another, there were about thirty men packed in the room, a nice fat heat signature that must have already been noted by the drones. The powerful funk of unwashed males did not bother Ghaith, who was not smelling particularly rosy himself at the moment. He had noted that some Western soldiers reacted to BO as if it was a vicious sidearm banned by all civilized nations. They would be more than happy to snuff out this lot. Even disregarding the observers overhead, the constant traffic of insurgents shuffling in and out of the building would draw attention. An invisible spider sprawled across the back of Ghaith's neck, the usual sensation whenever he felt he was being watched by unseen foes.

  "Al-Futuwwa," said a man to the side.

  The Council leader looked momentarily puzzled. Then he smiled up at Ghaith.. "Yes...that would be suitable. We have many officers here, even former colonels. One more would add to the confusion. You will do well at the school."

  Ghaith had a sick inkling of what lay ahead when one of the men in the room was called over to the table and told to take the captain to al-Futuwwa. The man shrugged on the strap of his KV in a manly fashion and nodded at Ghaith to follow.

  The street was busy with militant activity. Men rushed back and forth as former Army officers argued about lines of fire and proper ambush sites. Most of the men around them listened for a while, then ran off to plan their own personal strategies on how to welcome the U.S. Armed Forces. The Council had probably acted wisely in turning down Ghaith's offer to lead men in battle, but their wisdom was not improving the situation. So much courage, and so little sense.

  Ghaith trailed the insurgent to the edge of a souk and a low, sand-colored school building. They stooped through a low door and entered a hallway with three doors on each side. They entered the first room. Two dozen pairs of dark, shining eyes turned in their direction.

  Some of these boys could be no more than 6 or 7. The classroom had been blessed with desks and tables, but these were shoved against the wall so that the boys could sit on the floor, legs crossed. Ghaith could see little point in this, unless there were plans to pile the furniture onto one of the many barricades blocking the streets.

  At the head of the room sat the teacher, his well-practiced sternness planted on a face born placid with indifference. On the chalk board behind him was written two sayings by Mohammed:

  'Were it not for fear of troubling my disciples, verily I would order them to clean their teeth before every prayer.'

  'God is pure and loveth purity and cleanliness.'

  Good hygiene. Excellent. Ghaith had no bone to pick with that.

  But there was more. No one was about to accuse the teacher of allowing his students to think for themselves. Other quotes from the Sunni hadith, riwaya tafsirs that seemed far too advanced for these boys, cascaded across the chalk board in a sturdy hand that brooked no contradiction. Underneath these, as if to reinforce the holy words, was a crude diagram of a mortar shell, and next to that were drawn several squares that seemed to tumble towards the bottom of the chalk board. It took Ghaith a moment to realize these represented ice cubes. The teacher had apparently been telling his students about the 'ice jacket' ruse. The American military was exceptionally good at quickly vectoring in on mortars once a shell was launched. The first method of counteracting this was to let a seasoned veteran aim the mortar, then leave it to a hapless volunteer novice to pull the pin and drop the round, whereupon the novice was almost instantly blown to bits by counter-battery fire. But if expendable volunteers were in short supply, one could sheath the mortar round in ice. One had only to insert the round in the mortar opening, pull the pin, and run like hell. In this heat, the ice melted quickly, but by the time it dropped in the tube and cooked off the insurgents were well away from enemy retaliation. Ghaith realized these boys were the pin-pullers. After all, now that Fallujah's power had been cut, there were no freezers available to coat the shells in ice. Perhaps the teacher was trying to reassure the boys that, if things got to hairy, they could resort to the ice trick. A lie to steady t
heir nerves.

  Ghaith noted an odd-looking satchel against the wall near the desks. "What's that?"

  "What do you think?" the KV man frowned.

  A suicide vest.

  "For the student who can recite Sura 2:98," said the teacher with a quasi-benevolent smile.

  A hand shot up. A boy whose eyes were aflame with fervent belief announced:

  "'On unbelievers is the curse of Allah'."

  The teacher glanced at the insurgent and donned a look of pleasure. The KV man clasped his hands in appreciation.

  Ghaith was sick at heart.

  Ms. Cicada was surprised, even astonished, when Ari showed up yet again in Elmore Lawson's outer office. Apparently, one rejection nearly always sufficed to send visitors packing for good. True, on Ari's second appearance he had been allowed into the inner sanctum, but she had assumed this had been merely to give Lawson the opportunity to reject Ari face-to-face. She would have been amazed to learn that her boss had allowed Ari to follow him home.

  Before she could reach for the intercom button, there was a buzz and Lawson's deep sigh came over the speaker:

  "He can come in."

  Ari knew of 'sweet and sour', but Ms. Cicada's 'sour and sour' was a new taste sensation. Ari grimaced, as though he had bitten into an unripe grape. He hurried inside.

  The man seated behind the cluttered executive desk was a portrait of raw misery. He was working his fingers around his mouth, as though adjusting (with great pain) his prosthetic. He saw Ari's gaze fall on several prescription bottles. With his prosthetic hand, he opened a top drawer and swept them out of sight.

  "How is it I knew you'd be back?" he lisped.

  "Because you're a shrewd judge of character...usually."

  "What's that supposed to mean?"

  "For one, you did not suspect Ethan would vanish like this."

  "Take a seat," Lawson grunted.

  "No."

  "You're leaving already?"

  "No, we're leaving."

  There was a metallic creak as Lawson eased back in his broad chair. "What is this, a painfully inept attempt at a kidnapping? And I emphasize 'attempt'."

  "You will come because it is your duty."

  "I also understand the concept of 'limits'."

  "Limits?" Ari surveyed the room, as if someone had told him a unicorn was taking dictation. "I see no limits."

  "Listen, you camel buckaroo, taking a dump is almost impossible for me, so if you think I'm going out in the field—"

  "What is that on your computer screen? A log of your reports from your field agents? Very impressive...and nothing gets done."

  "The number one duty in America is to cover one's ass."

  "Yes," Ari nodded. "I think I've seen something like that. A nation of well-covered asses."

  "It took a good lawyer to get my job back, and one of the stipulations is that I don't take unnecessary risks. It's bad enough I might croak just walking in here. If I go out in the field and get knocked over by an irate policyholder, they'll have plenty of grounds to kick me out the door."

  "Would that be so awful?"

  "A man without a job is half a man, and since I'm already down to half..."

  "But if you are prevented from doing your job properly, that also lessens you."

  "That's OK. That's why we have rules and regulations: so no one will be tempted to do their job too well. We're half-assed, and well-covered."

  "I assume you dìd your best in Iraq."

  "My best is what got me here." He paused, growing curious. "What did you have in mind?"

  "I want to visit A-Zed Imports."

  "I thought you already had."

  "I spied upon them from a distance. Now that they know me, or think they do, I might as well walk on in. It's a business. People do walk in to do business."

  "And you expect me to walk in with you." Lawson emitted a mirthless yawp. "You want them to laugh themselves to death, that the plan?"

  "I want you to scare them shitless."

  The silence that followed was punctuated by the slow rapping of Lawson's plastic hand on the mahogany desktop. "You're just loaded with tact, aren't you?" he said finally.

  "We must make do with what we have. As I am sure you have found, your wounds are not of the type that summon pity, but terror."

  "And I do my best to stay out of the public eye for that very reason," Lawson shot back. "Let me tell you something, Mr. C. I used to be what we call a big, strapping buck. Bigger than you, even. I was told I was a handsome man, too. Sort of a modern Paul Robeson. People looked at me. Women, especially. Most dudes would lap that up by the bucketful, but not me. I'm not made that way, inside. I don't like attention. Would you fucking sit? We're not going anywhere."

  "Why did you train so hard to become an officer, then?" Ari asked, making no move for the chair. "Your men would be looking at you all the time."

  "And I could shut down their gawping quick." Lawson shuffled a coffee mug to the side. "And stop pretending you know everything about me. I was a good officer. And I liked that my men only had to look at me to get the message and follow orders." He chuckled. "They used to call me Godzilla. Maybe that jinxed me. Now I'm Godzilla with a glass eye."

  "Godzilla?" Ari inquired.

  "A monster as big as a skyscraper. Got his kicks grinding cities into dust."

  "Now you can grind the bad people into dust," Ari asserted.

  "Stop fidgeting."

  "I am growing patientless."

  "Hmmph." He reflected a moment. "I don't think I could..."

  "I'm not asking you to be a man. I want you to be a monster. You've started well. People approach this office with great dread. But it's a dread they can avoid by the simple expedient of not coming. Out there, you will be unavoidable. Like the Exterminator."

  "You mean the Terminator? Hell, I can barely snuff an ant."

  "The people at A-Zed Imports would not know that. They would think your mechanical hand was made to crush windpipes."

  "It can crush cup handles," Lawson said ruefully.

  "And if we get nowhere, that's when you demand of them the location of your lost robot son, Ethan."

  "You're a trip." Lawson looked across the room. Turning, Ari saw a framed picture of a previous Commandant of the Marine Corps. Ari knew instantly who it was. He went over and read the signature.

  "That's General Mike Hagee," said Lawson. "A good man."

  "He looks ominous."

  "Looks aren't deceiving," said Lawson, pointing to his head. "Hagee stomped plenty of bad people."

  "The very definition of a good man."

  "I happen to think so."

  Ari's expression was noncommittal. Lawson continued:.

  "That picture came with my Wounded Warrior condolence letter. It's a program for vets who got the bejesus blown out of them. They offer services, counseling…"

  "And you took advantage of it?"

  "Hell no. I don't feel good. Why pretend? I kicked the CACO out on his ass. I don't need some do-gooder feel-gooder telling me that at least I still have my dick." He mused a moment, and smiled. "You want me to scare the wits out of some peawit con men? That could be very...enabling." He leaned forward and pressed his intercom. "Ms. Perch, I'm going out."

  There was a pause.

  "You mean, down the hall?"

  "No, out."

  "You mean, outdoors outside?"

  "If Henderson calls, tell him to call Avery. If Avery calls, tell him to contact Henderson."

  "And if Thompson or Lee or Ngamo or—"

  "Tell them to earn their paychecks. I'll be back in an hour."

  Ari helped him on with his coat. "I'm not fussy if someone lends a hand, if it saves time."

  A door at the side of the office led to a tiny alcove. Before going out he looked up at a monitor bolted to the wall.

  "You can't see much beyond twenty yards, but if someone's standing outside with a sawed-off, I can press this..." He pointed at a small button below the monitor. />
  "What happens if you press it?"

  "Don't know. I almost pressed it when I saw you the first time. Would have been interesting to find out. But it's part of the settlement. When I won my case against the company to get my old job back, I managed to squeeze in a few bonuses, of which this and the monitor in my office were part of. Do I expect Security to come bounding around the corner if I press it? Bunch of lard asses—they'd have a collective heart attack before making it to the rear of the building. They're there just for show. Appearance, you know. Everything's appearance. Which is why I most certainly don't fit in."

  "The French had parades to honor their disfigured soldiers," Ari observed.

  "Did they? Well, I'm about as much French as a toad in a bayou. Get used to me putting myself down. It's part of my practical adjustment to life."

  "Were you putting yourself down?"

  Lawson laughed and pushed open the door. They sucked in their breath as a cold wind hit them face-on.

  "I'd better come back in one piece. If a single nut or bolt is missing, they'll use the video of me leaving with you against me. 'See? He didn't follow agreed procedure. Now we can dump him in the sewer.' Sure, I could live off the VA and government benefits. Sort of. But a man without a job...you know."

  "Your courage is an example to us all," Ari said, turning to face the building and casting a bravura wave at the surveillance camera.

  "You might be worth killing."

  It was only a few steps to his Land Cruiser. "It'll take a few minutes to set up," he said, hefting his cane on the crook of his elbow and pressing his remote.

  "Perhaps I should drive," said Ari.

  "I've seen your Scion cheese-box. I wouldn't fit inside." He thumped his gloved prosthetic on the flank of his Toyota and laughed. "Land Cruiser! I love that name. Come out with a Land Battleship and I'll be the first in line. As it is, if the Kkangpae Puppets try ramming this, they'll bounce off the road."

  "But do you want them marring your paintwork? Or do you get a special discount on your insurance?"