Cold Snap

by J. Clayton Rogers

  "Suck on them, soldier. Come on, man up. Just imagine a hot dog with that relish.

  Newell scowled and began to toss the relish away.

  "Hey, don't feed the enemy," Turgeson said. He turned to Ghaith. "I'm trying to get serious here. Most of your people can't shoot worth a damn, so when we came up against someone who knew what he was doing...well, we were careless. Or at least your predecessor was." He nodded in the direction of the dead Iraqi translator on the other side of the barrier."

  Ghaith bristled at the assumption: 'his people'. Well, they might be his people, but they weren't his tribe. Not that he had a tribe, anymore.

  "Maybe it's Juba," he said, knowing this would send the Marines reeling into the realm of second thoughts.

  Newell froze, his teeth braced against an envelope of hot sauce. Juba, the Baghdad Sniper, was already a legend to his enemy. He had so far killed 37 US troops, videotaping each attack and posting them on the internet. It was said he meticulously recorded each kill in a diary, including weather conditions, distance and the unit the victim belonged to.

  "What would he be doing in Fallujah?" Turgeson said.

  "The same thing he was doing in Baghdad," Ghaith shrugged.

  "They say he uses a Tula with a scope," said Newell, his teeth still closed on the tip of the envelope. He was referring to a Russian-made rifle favored by many marksmen. Ghaith had heard the sniper shooting at a target away from the barrier and thought it sounded more like an Iraqi-made Tabuk, but he held his peace.

  "Ugh," said Turgeson when Newell succeeded in tearing off the end of the envelope and squirted mayonnaise into his mouth.

  "Yeah," Newell admitted. "It ain't jalapeño cheese. But like the Corps motto says, 'improvise'."

  Turgeson pressed his headset to his ear, listening. He glanced up at Ghaith. "The FO wants to know if you want to try talking to the sniper before he begins flattening that apartment building and all the innocent bystanders inside. All our air and drones are tied up." When Ghaith didn't answer right away, the sergeant added, "You can use the bullhorn. Your predecessor tried going mano-a-mano. He didn't get very far."

  "So I see."

  "You don't like getting shot at?"

  "I don't like getting laughed at. As you indicated, the man up there is a professional. Perhaps a Syrian or Egyptian. Even an Iraqi. Saddam had an elite corps of snipers."

  "You don't want to talk to him, then?"

  Ghaith sighed. "The bullhorn, then."

  Turgeson spoke into his radio and a corporal ran up with a bullhorn. Ghaith took it and the corporal began telling him how to use it. Pressing the speaker button, Ghaith shouted, "Testing! Testing!"

  "Jesus!" Newell shouted, dropping the mayonnaise envelope and clamping his hands over his ears.

  Turgeson tapped Ghaith on the shoulder and pointed at the apartment building.

  After being captured at the madrassa, Ghaith had been taken directly to FOB Volturno (aka Dreamland), not far from Fallujah. The base commander heard out the lieutenant's story of how Ghaith had saved the students with an uncertain eye.

  "Do we really want a man who killed three men in a closed room as one of our translators?" he said when the lieutenant had finished. "I know they were insurgents, but that still displays a certain expertise that...well, it might not be desirable, especially seeing there will be moments when my men have their backs to him."

  Ghaith had smiled benignly. "Perhaps you would call General Saleh. He can vouch for my junk."

  The commander and lieutenant stared at him.

  But the call was put in, because the Americans were still hoping to place a suitably strong Iraqi-cum-empty suit-cum-dupe in charge of the recalcitrant Sunni city, and Saleh was the current designee. The general vouched for Ghaith in heroic terms, while not once employing Ghaith's real name. Ghaith had managed this sleight-of-hand when the commander put the general on speaker chat.

  "General Saleh!" Ghaith called out. "This is Omar al-Jaffal! The Americans want to confirm my bona fides."

  General Saleh, recognizing his voice, immediately fell into line.

  Thus Abu Karim Ghaith Ibrahim, who wanted nothing more than to slay Yanks by the score, found himself working for them—planning the entire time to use this new leverage to save his wife and son.

  Rising up slowly over the barrier, Ghaith raised the bullhorn.

  "Abn balla't aleora!"

  He ducked quickly, seeing as he had told the sniper his mother sucked dicks. The response was gratifyingly prompt. The FMJ bullet from the Tabuk ricocheted off the wheel barrow on top of the barrier.

  "What did you tell him?" Turgeson asked, though he had expected no better answer from the sniper.

  "I greeted him in the local patois."

  "Yeah? Well greet him again. Maybe we can pinpoint the bastard and take him out."

  After prudently shifting position, Ghaith popped up and said:

  "Bedi fawit eyri bi tizik!"

  He ducked just before the shot.

  "Anyone see him?" Turgeson asked.

  "He must be standing at the back of one of those rooms so we can't spot the flash," said Newell, peering through a chink in the barrier. "If we wait 'til night, we'd see the room he's hiding in light up."

  "He could switch rooms. He could be doing it now. And we can't sit here all day. We have to keep pace with Golf Company." Turgeson looked back towards the alley where the Humvee was parked. "The captain must be talking to the FO. God, I hate using Arty. Can't anyone shake loose some air—" He stopped when he heard a familiar drone overhead. "There's Slayer..."

  Slayer was an Air Force C-130 that crisscrossed over the city, bringing its Gatling guns and 105mm howitzer to bear on targets of opportunity or whenever a fire mission was called for from the ground.

  "We could move up while she plasters the building..."

  Ghaith had seen Slayer at work too many times to be pleased by the idea. Scooting a ways down the barrier, he again raised the bullhorn.

  "Hey, Juba! Zobi be ommock!"

  This time, the responsive shot was followed by a fusillade from several buildings.

  "RPG!" someone shouted and everyone behind the barrier fell flat. The explosion jarred their teeth. The wheel barrel flew up and crashed on the street behind them.

  "What did you say?" Newell asked Ghaith, their noses almost touching as they lay prone.

  "I insulted his mother." Ghaith pressed down as a stream of machine gun bullets came wickedly close.

  "Yeah, well it looks like half the city knows this guy's mother."

  "Got him!" Turgeson announced, pressing his headset. "Bring up the AT4's!"

  A minute later there was a lull. After making sure the backblast area was clear, three men stood and fired at the window Turgeson had shown them. Dust and mortar rained off the apartment building, landing in a cloud at the base.

  "Is the dozer here?" Turgeson shouted into his radio.

  The ground went wobbly as an armored D9 came up from the next block. Turgeson signaled the driver to keep going, fast. He didn't have to tell the men at the barrier to get out of the way. Watching the angle of approach, Ghaith realized that the D9 would crush the body of the translator once it barged through. But he wasn't entirely convinced that the sniper was finished. He ran to a covered doorway and pushed himself in among the Marines huddling there. Included in the group was a prisoner, a Sunni cleric. It was Dr. Ibrahim, the fanatic Ghaith had encountered in the souk the day of the Blackwater slayings. He was flexcuffed. His eyes blazed at Ghaith.

  "Traitor," he said.

  Ghaith shrugged, but did not speak. The cleric might have recognized his voice.

  So far as improvised roadblocks went, this one was sturdy enough to stop an up-armored Humvee, but it was no match for the 49-ton dozer. Furniture, garden ornaments, cinderblocks and paving stones went flying. A few Marines followed, using the dozer for cover. There was some desultory firing from the surrounding rooftops, but no more sure-shots from the apartment building. Se
veral Iraqis attempting to dash to the next alley were captured and Ghaith was called forward to translate. As he crossed the line of the barrier, his eyes fell on the bloody smear of his predecessor. Turgeson would not have allowed such a thing to happen to one of his own dead. But while the Iraqi translator had been one of the few, and perhaps one of the proud, he had certainly not been a Marine.

  The parking lot at Central Virginia Group lay full and somnolent, as though the assembled vehicles were sharing the sluggish digestion of their post-lunch owners. Driving slowly, it took Abu Jasim and Ben nearly ten minutes to pass up and down the rows, screening each vehicle for suspicious occupants. Ari had given Ben the still taken from the Nineveh video—the three men staring at the camera, the charred corpse on the ground next to them.

  "If you see any these men, call me immediately."

  "And if they're wearing ski masks?"

  "That will speak for itself."

  When they were satisfied no one was lurking in the parking lot, Ari hopped out of the Sprinter and entered the building. Abu Jasim and Ben parked as close to the two entrances as they could get.

  Ari had hoped for an inkling that security at the insurance company had tightened. In light of last night's events, Lawson should have alerted the guards to a possible intrusion. But while the same two guards sat out front handing out Visitor badges, they seemed as blind and fluffy as teddy bears. Ari hastened down the hallway.

  Ms. Cicada/Perch was blandly clacking away at her keyboard.

  "Is your master in?" he asked a little too harshly.

  "My what?"

  Charging at the inner door, he flung it open to find Lawson sipping at a straw sprouting out of a huge plastic cup.

  "Mmmm?" he said without removing his mouth from the straw.

  "I tried calling you but no one answered."

  "I had a meeting with some adjusters," Lawson spoke around the straw. "Ms. Perch was at lunch. And shit, wouldn't you know I'd forget to lock my office door."

  "Where are those toy soldiers?"

  Lawson pulled the straw out of his mouth. "Please show some respect. Those aren't 'toys'. They're G.I. Joes. I tossed them."

  Ari let go with a sigh of relief, then glanced around the office. "Have you received any packages in the last month? Statuettes, plaques...complimentary gifts?"

  "Considering my department shoots down frauds and cheats, we don't receive much in the way of gifts." He twisted his mouth in what Ari interpreted as a grin. "Speaking of gifts, you've given me two once-in-a-lifetime experiences in a single week. First A-Zed, then the motel. Really got my gonads humming. I call them gifts because I survived, by the way. So you mind telling me what this is all about?"

  "I'm trying to avoid a third once-in-a-lifetime," Ari said, not trying to be flippant.

  "Bomb?" said Lawson.

  "I think—"

  Ari's phone rang. It was Ben.

  "A blue van just pulled into the lot. It looks like the one from the motel."

  Ari recited a license plate number.

  "You...forget it. Hold on..."

  "I remembered the plate, too," said Lawson complacently. "And I ran it."

  "Pardon?"

  "Ran the plate number through DMV. We're authorized to do that. The plate belongs to a Mazda hatchback, owner's name Phillip Tichelmann. He reported it stolen three days ago, when he first noticed the switch."

  Ari had used the ploy himself on occasion. He made a rueful face.

  Ben came back on.

  "That's the plate." Ben hesitated. "What do you want me to do?"

  "Did you see the driver?"

  "There was a guy who might have been from the picture, but he didn't have a beard."

  "That would be Mohammed, a godless apostate," said Ari without a trace of hypocrisy. He again surveyed the room. "No foreign packages?"

  "Nor domestic." He flicked his intercom. "Ms. Perch, have we received any packages today?"

  "No, Mr. Lawson. I'm sorry that man—"

  "Thank you." He lifted his finger from the intercom. "I think we're covered."

  Ari raised his phone. "Call Abu Jasim and let him know about the van, but make no move yet."

  "Right," said Ben, and rang off.

  "You don't expect them to come charging in here?" said Lawson, opening his drawer and taking out his Beretta.

  "It would be impractical," said Ari, moving to the back of the office for a better view of the back door surveillance monitor. "They haven't finished their mission. You have armed guards at the front of the building."

  "You want me to call them?"

  "Not yet." Watching the screen, he said, "These are the people we encountered at A-Zed."

  "I sort of figured," said Lawson, bringing his cane out from under his desk, as though intending to batter his assailants.

  "The police will be investigating A-Zed. They will come perilously close to finding out about Ethan Wareness."

  "And then...his current employer." Lawson raised his hand and gingerly pressed his brow. "I've had a headache all morning."

  "If there is too much...activity here—"

  "Like another free-for-all," said Lawson. "Yes, that would probably be the end of me."

  "They'll know that Ethan, under your apparent guidance—"

  "I said I know." Lawson's face seemed to disassemble. "But if we want to catch the bad guys, there's not much else we can do. I'll call security. They can bring in the police."

  The blue van came into view of the surveillance camera.

  "Please be patient," said Ari, chary of telling Lawson about the host of additional undesirable consequences if the police were brought in. "I have arranged a distraction."

  "Really? I'm distracted already."

  "If we could plant a GPS device on the terrorists' van—"

  "Anyone trying that would be spotted and killed."

  "Ben will talk to their driver, while Ahmad plants—"

  "Are you crazy? These people saw us just yesterday. Are you praying for short-term memory loss?"

  "There are other possibilities. Ahmad can sneak up through the parked cars. He can be very sly when he wants to be. And if they all leave the van—"

  "They're not stopping."

  The van had moved out of camera range.

  "You were talking about Ben and Saddam Hussein?" said Lawson lowly, as though the terrorists had sneaked inside and were eavesdropping from the next room. "You brought them with you?"

  "They are in the parking lot," said Ari. "And I assure you, Abu Jasim is not Saddam. It will be his nephew who plants the device. He is much more lithe."

  "You mean a smaller target. I've been meaning to ask you about this Abu character. How did you meet him? Do you know a lot of Arabs?"

  "It is my privilege to know people from many nations," said Ari, reaching down for his vibrating phone. "Yes, Ben."

  "I'm not believing this. The van parked and a woman got out."

  "Where is it parked?"

  "Way over the other side of the lot. Listen, Ari, it's the same woman from the paint department. The one you said was following me."

  "You have very good eyes," Ari observed.

  "I'm a bird watcher. I keep a pair of binoculars in my glove compartment."

  "Providence assures the well-prepared," said Ari. "I'll contact Abu Jasim."

  Ari ended the call and hit the speed dial.

  "Let me talk to Ahmad," he said when Abu Jasim answered.

  "My father will hear about this," the young man pouted over the phone when he came on.

  "He approves of the warrior virtues," said Ari. "This will enhance you in his eyes."

  "Yeah? Well you didn't hear what he said when I told him about my last trip down here. He said—"

  "Certainly, he will have my head if you don't show due caution. If you suspect that the bad people see you, run—"

  "They see me already."

  "Nonsense. You have to leave the Sprinter, first." Ari saw the woman from Lowe's, the woman who had
inserted herself into Pastor Grainger's running group, and the woman (he suspected) who had been driving the blue van at the motel come into view of the camera. "Benjamin is ready, too, in case a distraction is required. Now go—and don't forget the device."

  "Oh shit," Ahmad said. "I almost—"

  Ari hung up and focused on the screen.

  "Pretty girl," said Lawson. "She looks familiar..."

  "Remove the fog from your remaining eye," Ari said.

  "I've still got my dick," said Lawson. "The third eye sees what the other two can't."

  "Don't bestir yourself. I believe this woman is a killer."

  Lawson grunted in disappointment. "Is that another Middle Eastern complexion I see?"

  The woman walked slowly but easily, as though surveying the parking lot for scenic sights. But she knew where she was going. She came within fifty feet of the rear door and stopped.

  She stared at the surveillance camera.

  "She knows we're watching her." Lawson turned away, as though he could not bear to be stared at.

  "I don't think so," said Ari. "But I don't understand what she's up to. Wait..."

  The woman raised one arm and arched it over her head.

  "The cameraman," Ari hissed tensely. "I knew it..."

  Perhaps Lawson was wrong. The bomb could have arrived in a thick envelope that the insurance investigator would not consider a package. It could be lying in his drawer.

  The woman frowned and took a few steps forward. She repeated the odd gesture.

  "Looks like she's practicing a ballet move," said Lawson, who had turned back to the monitor screen. "In the old days I would have run over with a bouquet in one hand and my johnson in the other."

  "Who is Mr. Johnson?"

  "You should know. I think he originated in Italy."

  Ari was at a loss, but the woman's frown had deepened and she was moving closer to the building.

  "A siren," said Lawson. "She's calling to me. Wish she'd take that coat off so I could see more."

  "Like the machine gun strapped to her waist?"

  "Give the cripple a break." He paused. "Oh shit, I think I need to piss."

  "Use your cup. It's large enough."

  The woman stopped and again stretched out her arm sideways, more slowly this time, like an athlete preparing for a long haul at the weights.