There were only two caskets on my flight from Baghdad—Andi and the Hungarian—but in Kuwait the other war dead catch up to us. Thirty-five American soldiers have been killed in the past five days. On our next flight, to Germany, an army chaplain tells me, Andi will be joined by the caskets of twenty-four of the soldiers who have been killed since January 17, 2007, including those in the Black Hawk crash.
It is around 8P.M.
Karen and I talk. It is really our only real conversation in the forty-eight hours we spend together.
She explains that NDI had such a good relationship with the IIP, such a good relationship. I do not say a word. She says there are people at very senior levels of NDI considering whether or not they should continue working with the IIP. I try not to say anything, but I am greatly disturbed by what she says. They had assumed a level of trust with these men, a fatal mistake when operating in that environment. I wish they had not trusted them so fully; I wish they had played it safe and had the meeting at the Green Zone, where the IIP members go regularly, or told them to visit the NDI compound instead.
I don’t know if it is naïveté or incompetence on NDI’s part, but either way, I am angry. I can’t speak to Karen about my anger of course; I can’t speak to her about Andi. I can see that she doesn’t want to know about Andi, not really; she cannot bear to hear it. They never had the chance to know each other; I can see her struggle with her own feelings of guilt, as she was Andi’s supervisor, one of those who had signed off on the trip to the IIP that led to Andi’s death.
“I just remember she was so bright and beaming that morning,” says Karen. “And in December we took one look at her résumé, and said of course we want this person; of course we want her to be part of the program. She was self-motivated; she had a plan for what she wanted to do, and she presented it to me, and I was like, go for it.”
After talking to Karen, I realize there was no conversation that morning, no security briefing with Andi, no talk about what signs of danger to look for. There did not even seem to be much talk about the purpose of the trip, except as a meet and greet. I knew Andi would never refuse to go on a trip. It is the job of the field worker to want to push boundaries, to do as much as you can, and the job of the supervisors and private security team to temper that desire, to say, look, that is a big risk: Is it worth it? Can you accomplish your work without a visit? Can you meet them in the Green Zone or perhaps they can come here? These are the questions that should always be asked in Baghdad, especially in January 2007, when there was open fighting in the streets and kidnappings were a common occurrence. Were none of these most basic questions asked?
Karen tells me her information about the attack is from one of the PSDs who survived the attack, the man in the first car.
According to him, the first car drives out of the compound and down the street; his radio crackles with the word “contact.” The driver, an Iraqi man, pulls a U-turn, and something gets in the way—an Iraqi family or something. Karen says the Iraqi driver then gets nervous, like something is wrong, maybe the family was trying to slow them down. By the time the first car goes back down the street, they think Andi’s car has escaped, because there is so much smoke they couldn’t see it. So then the first car pulls back into the IIP compound. A second team of NDI PSDs is dispatched and is on the way. The guard in the first car gets out and moves onto the street on foot; he sees about four or five insurgents trying to drag the body of the PSD team leader who had been killed after he left the tail car. He opens fire on the insurgents, hitting a few perhaps, and they run off. He then takes cover, and a gunfight ensues. The second NDI team arrives about twenty minutes later; they are also in heavy contact with the insurgents. Around forty minutes later, Coalition forces arrive, and—unusually, says Karen—they find the PSDs all still there. In most cases, the private security teams involved in gunfights leave the scene of an incident as quickly as possible.
It is a forty-five-minute-long gun battle, with bullets flying over the smoking remains of Andi’s car. Karen says the PSDs were considering going back that night to find the killers, but they didn’t do that—that was a bad idea, it was the anger talking, the desire for revenge, and besides, they probably wouldn’t be able to find them.
This the last sequence of events I get for months. It is basically accurate, but a more complete description emerges in the coming year. I contact the American unit that arrived after the attack; I contact Andi’s coworkers at NDI; I talk to Unity Resources Group, as well as my contacts in the security industry.
After months of asking NDI and URG for a full briefing, I finally get one in August 2007. I learn that the incident happened at 12:07P.M. I learn that a local Iraqi car, believed to belong to the insurgents, got in front of Andi’s car to slow it down. At that point, the car was attacked and disabled with machine-gun fire. The attackers rushed the car, shooting, tried to open the doors, and threw a grenade under it. After the explosion, the third car sped ahead into the smoke, crashing into Andi’s car. That’s what Jacob crashed into, the crash he couldn’t talk to me about. One of the security guards in the third car got out and was killed; the other two, Jacob and the Iraqi driver, ran into a building for cover. The insurgents then rolled a grenade under the third car and it exploded. The first car returned to the incident, but it was too late. Twenty minutes later, they were joined by NDI’s reinforcements.
NDI and URG tell me that they followed all of their normal security procedures. The procedures had never failed before; Andi is the first client URG has lost, and the first NDI staffer to be killed in Iraq. NDI spent over $20 million a year on security for their Iraq program. However, NDI closed down its operation in Baghdad in the month following Andi’s death, moved its Western staff to Amman and Kurdistan, and has not reopened it.
CHAPTER24
January 21, 2007
KUWAIT
Karen and I wait for our flight in the television lounge at the Kuwait passenger terminal. It is late, past midnight, and we have not heard from our military contacts who are supposed to let us know what time we are leaving. Karen is asleep. I am getting nervous—I have little faith in the miracle of military travel. It has been five days since Andi was killed. I’ve been told that in Dover there might be up to a week’s delay, as the U.S. military finishes the final identification of her remains. I am anxious to get out of Kuwait and into Germany for the last leg of the flight.
I ask the retired air force colonel, now hired as a private contractor, at the desk, “How’s our flight?”
“The flight has been canceled,” she says. “Mechanical problems.”
“That’s no good. So what flight are we on then?”
“You’ll be on the flight with the other caskets from the Black Hawk crash,” she explains.
“And what about our flight from Germany to Dover?”
“Right now, you’re on a flight that takes off Tuesday morning from Germany.”
“Tuesday morning? That’s almost forty-eight hours later than when we were supposed to arrive. We need to get on the earliest flight possible from Germany to Dover. I can’t believe there’s not an earlier flight.”
She nods, and says she will see what she can do.
I wake Karen. “Karen, there’s an issue.”
I hear the air force colonel on the radio. She is facing resistance. They don’t want to move the flight in Germany up.
I make a call toNewsweek, and explain that we are being held up—they aren’t giving us the flight that was promised. I tell them that I suspect what is happening is that with all the other dead over the weekend—a total now of twenty-four—they are trying to economize and put all of them on the same flight to Dover. I understand, I say, but Andi died first, she should have priority.Newsweek is going to make calls, to try to put pressure on the right people to get us an earlier flight. I say I will work it from my end to see what will happen.
I wait by the desk; the colonel says the problem is fixed. She arranged, in less than fifteen minu
tes, for the mission to be the earliest possible flight from Germany to Dover, which turns out to be leaving at 5P.M. German time, arriving in Dover around 8P.M. Eastern Standard Time.
It is still unclear when we will be leaving Kuwait, however.
I ask the Mortuary Affairs sergeant if I can come over to the terminal.
“Hi, Sergeant, I have a question for you, if you have a second, thanks. When are we going to get out to the flight line?”
“Sir, the HRs are going to be loaded in an hour, so you can go out in like fifteen minutes,” he says.
“HRs? What does that mean?”
“Sorry, sir, HRs, uh, human remains.”
“You know, Sergeant, in most organizations, HR stands for human resources, but hey, what are you going to do.”
He laughs.
A van arrives to bring Karen and me out to the flight line. This time we are on a C-5. I climb inside, and it is the largest military aircraft I have ever been on. There are bright lights and an arenalike area for cargo that is currently empty. There are two levels, and the second floor is a passenger section of the plane that resembles the economy class of a commercial jet—it’s up a wobbly set of folding stairs. We place our luggage on those seats, climb back down the stairs, and wait.
There will be another ceremony, I’m told. This time, it will take much longer, possibly up to an hour. There is only one honor guard detachment and there are twenty-five HRs that need to be loaded. They’ll do it in two sets, the first twelve, then a brief break, then the second set.
I go smoke on the runway with members of the crew.
We are called back after twenty minutes.
It is 3A.M. There is a glow of electric red light over the Kuwaiti base, blinking towers, high-intensity spotlights, vehicles scurrying across the runway. The war is getting farther away. The fear one feels instinctively in Baghdad fades. You can stand outside without thinking that a mortar or rocket could end your day. The loud noises aren’t soldiers shooting or clearing their rifles, accidental discharges, warning shots, ambushes, death squads killing someone in the night—the loud noises are just noises. Most Americans posted to Iraq, all the living and all the dead, pass through Kuwait. We wait in the bright lights of the C-5 cargo bay, two rows of soldiers in air force gear, another chaplain, another prayer, another ceremony, standing and watching.
The ramp opens; another plain white delivery truck pulls up to it, revealing caskets resting inside. The caskets come in, one after the other, and after about five are loaded it all blends together, your legs start to get numb, and you start to shift your weight from one foot to the other. You can’t sit down although you want to. You must respect them, the fallen soldiers, the angels, the lost, the mourned, the wasted, the sacrificed. You wait while one after the other is set down carefully, with precision, in two single-file rows. “Flag draped” is an inaccurate description. The flag does not drape, it is tightly tied down. The flag is much nicer than a black rubber body bag, it gives meaning to what is inside, the HRs, the human remains, the mutilated bodies, the bodies not mutilated, the bodies wrapped in plastic inside silver, the bodies whose organs are no more, the bodies without enough for a good DNA sample and bodies that are preserved, bodies with flesh and the bodies whose flesh has been burned away.
Andi’s remains.
I am losing my shit.
I am numb. The twelfth casket is laid down on the floor of the plane.
There is a break in the ceremony; each casket takes about three minutes to load. The honor guard needs a break, as do those watching in silence.
“Which one is Andi?” I ask the master sergeant.
I want to make sure she is on the plane. I have asked this question a number of times, and have yet to get an answer. It is hard to say, they all look the same, and the only way is to check the papers on the side of the casket. The master sergeant goes and has words with the Mortuary Affairs sergeant. When he returns, he points to her casket.
The sixth one loaded on. I go up to it, and tap it.
She is here with me again.
The ceremony begins again.
The last thirteen caskets are loaded on. This time I am prepared for the time to pass slowly.
It is 4A.M.
I notice Karen is on a cell phone.
When the ceremony is over, I ask Karen what’s going on.
The Hungarian, Yonni, they didn’t put the Hungarian on.
I look at her. I am too tired to try to get the Hungarian on. My responsibility is Andi, and Andi is on the plane. Her responsibility is the Hungarian, and he is not on, and she cannot get him on—something to do with orders. I realize this might delay things further in Dover—because of the “comingling of remains” they want to make sure Andi is separated properly from the Hungarian, and that can take time. But I don’t have it in me to address the problem, and Karen doesn’t seem to understand how it can be fixed. I don’t have the strength to explain to her how to operate in this environment, that you must never take anything for granted, that you must be persistent, you must verify, you must keep on them, because things just don’t happen. You can’t be complacent and doze off in the TV lounge if you have to get things done. But I don’t say any of this. We have been traveling now for almost twenty-four hours, I have not slept, and instead I go smoke another cigarette. The chaplain gives me a rosary and a quarter-sized gold angel coin, which I put in the top pocket of my blazer.
The C-5 takes off. Karen and I sit in separate rows on the second level, the whole compartment to ourselves. We are the only escorts, the only passengers on the flight. I wrap myself in three blankets; it is very cold up there. I sleep for four hours. When I wake up we are an hour away from Germany.
CHAPTER25
January 22, 2007
RAMSTEIN AFB, DOVER
Ramstein Air Force Base Germany, near Frankfurt. Civilization is immediately apparent. There is a passenger terminal, a real one, without plywood and sandbags, but with clean glass and monitors that actually show what time flights arrive and depart. There are ticket counters and security checkpoints without M-4 rifles and grenades, where the soldiers meeting us are dressed nicely and know what is going on. There is no confusion once you get to Ramstein. This is an operation that moves cargo and people, and it runs smoothly—the airbase’s motto, written on the map we are given when we land, is “Supporting the World!” We check into the hotel on base, a hotel like a Holiday Inn. I take a warm shower and change shirts and think about resting my eyes, but don’t, and before I know it, I am back in the airport, getting my passport stamped at customs, and back on another plane. This one is a C-17. The caskets are already loaded up and strapped in place—no more ceremonies. There are two pairs of caskets in the first two rows, and then each row has three caskets. Each casket has about half a dozen clips on the side, which are strapped down on the floor with belts and metal buckles. At this stage of the trip, the war now on another continent, it is cargo to be carried.
The C-17 is smaller than the C-5, and the cargo bay is filled up with the caskets. They are close together in two rows, going back to the ramp and up to the cockpit. There is no passenger compartment for travelers; there is a long bench on the side of the cargo bay. I sit toward the front, and Karen sits next to me. We are the first passengers aboard the flight, the VIPs. I keep my sunglasses on. Other passengers file onto the plane, contractors and civilians who live in Germany and are catching a flight back to the States, to Charleston, with a stopover in Dover. There are men and women and families, toddlers and babies, about twenty people in all. They walk past me, being careful not to trip over the caskets, and sit down. I wonder if they got a warning—you can take this flight, even bring the kids, but be prepared, there are twenty-five caskets on board. Or you can take the next flight which leaves in four hours. Who wants a four-hour delay? The aircrew hands out earplugs and blankets, boxed lunches and soda.
The flight takes off.
I am hungry and thirsty and I need caffeine. I drink the D
iet Pepsi and eat the sandwich in the box lunch. Other passengers do the same; some have brought their own meals for the flight.
The aircrew member lays down two sleeping bags on the floor, and asks if we want to sleep. Karen takes her up on the offer and lies down. I don’t want to. The sleeping bags are lying parallel to the caskets, and I am not that tired. I prefer to sit back and close my eyes, perhaps pass out, perhaps not.
It is nine hours to Dover.
Some aircrew members work during the flight; some rest; others listen to iPods. A mother with two small children walks by me, carrying a baby, on the way to the restroom at the front of the plane.
I take out my iPod and listen to music. The songs Andi chose. I have figured out that her casket is toward the back of the plane, third row in.
I lean my head back.
One song after the other. I am beyond sobbing. I sit and grieve. I grieve for everything, for Andi and me, for Iraq, for my own stupid reasons for being there, for all of it, for this fucking travesty. Andi and two dozen soldiers, all with families dotted across America who are going through something like what I am going through right now, who received the message at the front door from the man in the uniform, who received the phone call with the terrible news, who dreaded this happening, it couldn’t happen to them yet fuck if it didn’t. And here I am, in this cargo bay, high above the ocean that keeps America away from the rest of the world, with air sickness bags nearby and boxed lunches with soda and military service families heading home for vacation and I feel the tremor of the plane and I close my eyes but I can still see the rows of caskets in front of me. My eyes are shut tight and I can see Andi perfectly in the third row and I know exactly what it would look like if we began the spiral down, if this plane crashed, if the cargo bay burst open right now and shot its cargo out, tearing off the metal clasps, the force of the catastrophic failure jettisoning each silver casket, twirling and spinning, mad batons, temperature-controlled containers though probably not too aerodynamic, flags ripping away from them, not at all like parachutes but like magnificent streamers, the twenty-five caskets falling in a beautiful burst, a grand finale, until finally they hit the ocean’s surface one by one, an honorable splash, each making its own powerful ripple but one that will never make it to shore. The war is so far away now. Baghdad is now eight hours ahead, as I move back to the time zone of the United States, and half the passengers on this plane are still dead.
I Lost My Love in Baghdad Page 25