The day ended with no finds—no good guys, bad guys, hurt guys, dead guys, IEDs, no sign of what had happened, no clue about where these Americans could be. On the helicopter back to Slayer, Willingham thought of the families of the missing soldiers and what they must be going through in the raw dark space of not knowing if their husbands, fathers, and sons were dead, suffering, or, somehow, safe.
He thought of his pregnant wife and felt vaguely unsettled that she was alone. Jill would be OK, he reassured himself. Their house was in a safe neighborhood. She was smart, a nurse, she could take care of other people and herself. Besides, he’d left her with two weapons. One that comes with a trigger, the other that comes with teeth—a white shepherd named Alpine, trained by him to make sure nothing bad happened while he was gone.
When the Black Hawk returned to Camp Slayer, the first thing he did was change into his marine uniform. Then he headed to the phones to call Jill.
REENLISTMENT IN THE marines tends to be a unique affair, especially early in a marine’s career. Willingham’s first reenlistment had taken place with two of his dog-handler pals in a creek at Camp Lejeune, in a ceremony serenaded by barking dogs. These three weren’t going to settle for a traditional ho-hum ceremony outside their workplace. They asked their kennel master if they could reenlist in Wallace Creek, where they’d practiced their cross-creek aggression skills. Willingham loved the amphibious nature of the idea—half in the water, half out, not unlike the marine assault amphibious vehicles he had always thought were so badass.
The kennel master asked the captain, who thought it was a fitting location. On a perfect October day, they all headed to the creek, along with their wives and about ten other marines. The guests stood close by, on the banks of the creek. The handlers waded—boots and all—into the water until it was midcalf. The water lapped up to the chests of the three dogs, who at first calmly enjoyed the experience. A first sergeant, facing them and also in the water, read the orders.
“Be it known that Sergeant Chris E. Willingham, Sergeant Matthew J. Pearson, and Corporal Aaron M. Nuckles have been accepted for reenlistment in the United States Marine Corps. Your reenlistment reflects uncommon devotion and loyalty to your country and to the Corps. It is this special kind of commitment that makes the Corps unique and respected throughout the world. The Corps is proud to have you in its ranks.”
As the captain waded closer and had them raise their right hands to swear them in, one of the dog trainers from the kennel went up behind him to take photos of the men taking their oath. When Castor, a Dutch shepherd, saw the guy bending down and staring at them while aiming something at them, it must have triggered a memory of cross-creek aggression. He began barking, loudly and quickly. Minnow, a Malinois, joined him.
Willingham had another dog back then—a German shepherd named Tekky. While the duet barked away, she looked around and calmly surveyed the situation. She barked once and seemed to decide that was more than enough. Willingham felt she was the best dog he ever met. At least until Lucca.
His next reenlistment took place at the Marine Corps Ball. He wore dress blues and cut a handsome figure. The music stopped, his K-9 friends gathered round, and he swore to a few more faithful years defending Uncle Sam.
And now it was time for another reenlistment. He needed to do it before heading out to whatever unit he and Lucca would be assigned to. Knight—who had nailed the validation test as predicted with Bram—was up for his reenlistment, too. They had known they were due when they were stateside, but when you get a chance to reenlist in a combat theater, that’s hard to pass up.
“What better a place to reconfirm your oath to defend the constitution than in a war zone?” Willingham said to Knight.
“Agreed.”
Besides a hearty dose of marine patriotism, it didn’t hurt that reenlisting in a combat zone meant the reenlistment bonus was tax-free.
At Slayer, they could have just completed the paperwork, walked into Roche’s office, agreed to some stuff she read to them, signed on the dotted line, and it would be a done deal within a few minutes. But once they saw the abundance of potential settings for their reenlistment, that option seemed far too banal.
“We’re marines; we don’t do things the way everyone else does!” Knight and Willingham told Roche, almost in unison, when they explained their request. She wasn’t surprised. Nothing these guys did surprised her. She was going to miss them when they got their assignments.
It’s not unusual for officers and enlisted to develop friendships on deployment. Military customs and courtesies are a bit more relaxed, especially on smaller forward operating bases (FOBs) and outposts. When Roche arrived in Iraq, she was assigned to work under the Multi-National Corps–Iraq (MNC-I) C7 Explosive Hazards Coordination Cell. It was run like they were in garrison, with all the yes, sirs; yes, ma’ams; salutes; and military professionalisms she’d experienced during her entire military career.
But when she visited the smaller FOBs and outposts, where troops were outside the wire much of the time, there was a different level of respect between the enlisted ranks and officers. She thought of it as a “brotherhood bond.” They could talk to one another like peers and joke around. The orders were still being given by the officers, but most realized that the senior enlisted guys had more experience than they did. The result was a mutual respect, with officers listening and learning and then heeding the advice of senior enlisted in executing decisions.
It went even beyond this with Willingham and Knight. Besides the awe she had for their level of knowledge and the way they did their jobs, they were a blast to hang out with. When the three of them were together, as long as they weren’t working, someone was inevitably laughing. So it was only natural that she agreed to reenlist them at a location of their choosing that was not an office.
But where?
Camp Slayer had plenty of unique backdrops, all built around a man-made lake. There was the Perfume Palace—the one they could see from the kennel area. The story that circulated among troops and probably grew embellished over time was that during social events, Saddam Hussein would go up to a vantage point from which he could scan the guests. He would pick the most desirable woman, have her brought up to him, and have his way with her. When he was done, she would be killed and thrown into a moat. When the moat was dredged, contractors discovered dozens of victims. Or so the tale went.
They’d pass on this locale. Too gruesome, if the story was true.
They considered the Victory Over America Palace, which was never completed. An American bomb had blasted a hole in its ceiling. “Saddam Hussein gives a palace a name like that, and what did he expect?” Knight observed. “Fool!”
It was an attractive palace, and they liked the irony of the name. They put it on their short list.
The adjacent Flintstone Village—so named by the Americans, at least—looked like something straight out of the cartoon town of Bedrock. Hussein had probably built it for his grandchildren and other children of his family and friends. There were something like ten bedrooms and bathrooms, all now in disrepair, graffiti covering most surfaces.
The Hanna-Barbera backdrop didn’t seem quite badass enough for reenlistment.
In the end, they decided to take their reenlistment outside Slayer, to Baghdad’s Green Zone. It had been the administrative center of the Ba’ath Party until the Americans took control in 2003. Now it was one of the safest areas around, surrounded by high, protective blast walls, heavily guarded by coalition troops, and with only a few points of entry. Not that insurgents didn’t try to cause harm, and sometimes succeeded in doing so. But it was about as safe as you could get in this war zone.
The ride to the Green Zone wasn’t without risks, since they’d be traveling through the streets of Baghdad not controlled by coalition forces. They decided to leave their dogs at Slayer. Willingham, Knight, and Roche boarded an armored bus, a Rhino-RUNNER. These sand-col
ored buses were among the toughest on the planet, but they weren’t perfect. Everyone boarded in flak and Kevlar.
Roche was a little nervous during the twenty-five-minute ride. Despite the road being walled by tall protective barriers, you never knew what could happen. She turned to talk to Willingham and Knight to help take the edge off the ride, but they were sleeping. She couldn’t believe it.
She thought about the nap-of-the-earth Black Hawk rides she had been on in high-threat environments while accompanying some of her handlers to their assigned FOBs and outposts. During a nap-of-the-earth, the pilot flies as close to the terrain as possible, so passengers feel every dip, every change in elevation, while seeing the land very close up—alarmingly so at times. It’s good for avoiding enemy detection and attack, but not always great on the stomach and nerves.
Compared to a nap-of-the-earth, the trip on the Rhino was a pleasure ride. Still, Roche wasn’t surprised when her favorite Christian songs came into her head. After a few rounds of “Our God Is an Awesome God—He Reigns!” and “Thy Word Is a Lamp unto My Feet,” they arrived safely in the Green Zone.
They toured some of the sites for a couple of hours, then headed to the Victory Arch, also known as the Crossed Swords monument. Two giant bronze fists each clasped a 140-foot sword. The tips of the swords crossed each other over a wide parade ground. The concept was Saddam Hussein’s, and the hands and forearms of the statues were said to be modeled after his own.
The marines concurred: no better place to reenlist in the U.S. Marine Corps for four more years.
Willingham first listened then pronounced the formal commitment smoothly and respectfully. He was in again for another four years. Then it was Knight’s turn. Willingham read the certificate of reenlistment, which at this point in his career he was so familiar with that he almost had it memorized: “Be it known that Staff Sergeant Kristopher R. Knight has been accepted for reenlistment in the United States Marine Corps. Your reenlistment reflects uncommon devotion and loyalty to your country and to the Corps. It is this special kind of commitment that makes the Corps unique and respected throughout the world. The Corps is proud to have you in its ranks.”
Knight buckled. There was something about his friend reading such a formal certificate that struck him as funny. He did feel uncommonly devoted to his country and the corps, but it was hard to keep a straight face when his old Texas Hold’em pal was reading it seriously. Then came the oath, read by Roche in short chunks Knight was supposed to repeat while raising his right hand.
“I, Kristopher R. Knight, do solemnly swear that I will support and defend the Constitution of the United States against all enemies, foreign and domestic; that I will bear true faith and allegiance to the same and that I will obey the orders of the President of the United States and the orders of the officers appointed over me, according to the regulations and the Uniform Code of Military Justice. So help me God.”
No marine would say Staff Sergeant Knight got a case of the giggles, but it did take him three tries to get through the oath.
BY EARLY JUNE, Roche was fielding requests for handlers from several units. A big military action was about to get under way, but there wasn’t much detail. Just enough to know that her dog teams could be seeing some heavy action soon.
Knight and Bram headed in a Humvee to Camp Striker, not far away, still on Victory Base Complex. Wiens and Cooper took a helo down to FOB Kalsu, in Iskandariya, twenty miles south of Baghdad. Willingham awaited his assignment.
Good-byes were short, on the order of friends parting after a Super Bowl party. They didn’t have to wax poetic. They knew.
“See you soon, man.”
“Be safe.”
“Go get ’em.”
“Damned straight.”
Willingham headed out last. Another hot June day. As the Black Hawk took off, Lucca lay down at Willingham’s feet and rested her head on his boots. Within a couple of minutes, she was asleep.
FOB Falcon was just a few miles away, but the pilot took a long route, not the most direct. Predictable routes made the birds easier targets. After several minutes of flying, the pilot gave a heads-up that he would be doing some maneuvers so they’d be harder to hit as they approached FOB Falcon. Nap-of-the-earth time. Willingham put a hand on Lucca’s harness.
The helicopter banked sharply to the right, then to the left, curved around, banked again. The crazy movement woke up Lucca. She looked at Willingham. What the hell, man?
“Lucca, we’re fine,” he said, enjoying a small adrenaline rush. “You’re safe.”
PART TWO
The Heat Is On
4
Hey, a Dog! BOOM!
WILLINGHAM FLIPPED OPEN the frayed door flap of the general-purpose tent.
“Ladies first.”
Lucca entered and immediately went to work. She didn’t have to sniff every corner, every seam, the plywood floor. She just couldn’t help it. Finding no bombs, she lay down and watched Willingham unpack, as she had five weeks earlier at Camp Slayer. He unrolled his sleeping bag on one of four folding steel cots. On another cot he laid out his uniforms—army and marine, flak vest, Kevlar, and a small photo album with pictures of Jill, his parents, grandparents. Mouthwash, deodorant, razors, shaving cream, water bottles, baby wipes went on top of a broken air-conditioning unit in the corner.
He took two steel bowls from one of his bags and poured water in one. The ping of kibble as he scooped it into the other bowl caught Lucca’s attention. She stood up, stretched, and chowed down.
This was their first FOB experience together, and Willingham was excited about finally getting close to the real action. FOB Falcon wasn’t big; maybe one and a half miles around if he walked the inside perimeter of the twelve-foot-tall, steel-reinforced concrete protective T-walls. Falcon housed a few white two-story concrete buildings, but most of the soldiers here slept in tents, which were arranged in neat rows separated by gravel paths. It was Tim Burton–esque in its oddly perfect layout. There was hardly any vegetation, and what little there was had gone mostly brown and crispy. A few hardy trees had managed to hold on to their green despite the conditions. They stood out to Willingham, who admired their fortitude.
It was far more Spartan than Slayer had been, but Willingham didn’t mind. He wasn’t here for the aesthetics.
Well, not entirely.
He surveyed the tent. It was general-purpose medium, thirty-two by sixteen feet, which felt like way too much space for one marine and his dog, even with all the equipment they had brought along. He figured he’d be getting some company soon, so he didn’t spread out too much.
It was slightly dark inside because of the semi-opaque olive-green tent. It needed something to liven it up, he thought. He reached under a cot and unzipped a duffel. At the bottom of the T-shirts, underwear, and socks, he felt what he was looking for. He took out his two flags—U.S. Marine Corps and University of Alabama—and hung them along the walls next to his cot. He stepped back and took in his handiwork. The red of the two flags brought some life into the gray and green interior.
“That’s better! Roll Tide! Home sweet home, Lucca.”
He looked around again. It was a little more colorful, but it still seemed empty. He was the lone marine in a sea of soldiers, the only dog guy on this entire FOB, and Lucca was the only dog. It could be a long five months if no one else showed up.
Not that they’d be spending all that much time here. FOB Falcon would just be a place they’d come back to for a little rest. “This is where you’ll come to relax between missions,” someone had told him. A big op was brewing, and they were going to be heading out within days. He knew nothing more about it, but there was something he needed to start doing right away if he and Lucca were going to get out there and help save soldiers from IEDs. He had to brief some key people on the capabilities and limitations of dogs and what they bring to the fight.
He was aware that most people in the military didn’t realize the work that dog teams do. In fact, many didn’t even know there were dogs in the military. Maybe they’d seen a slide of a dog team during a PowerPoint presentation back in basic training, but it was usually quickly forgotten. Earlier, on the way to their tent, he could see the surprise on the faces of several soldiers. “A dog?! Cool!” was the typical reaction, with a request to pet Lucca.
He had his work cut out for him. He decided he’d start by talking to some higher-ups. He didn’t want to oversell or undersell what Lucca could do. Proven, not perfect—a phrase he drilled into his students at Lackland. He always told his students not to be cocky about what they could do. Confidence is one thing. But you have to be realistic. IEDs are a nasty business that can evade even the best team. Dogs are a huge added asset, but they’re not infallible.
“Ready to let ’em know what we’re made of?”
Lucca walked to his side and sat, panting a little from the heat of the tent. He leashed her up and they walked out into the bright, hot afternoon. As they walked away, he turned around to give the tent a quick look from the outside so he’d know where to return later, since the GP tents all looked alike. He didn’t notice that over the door, stenciled with red paint that had blended into the fading green tent, was the number thirteen. It would be a few more weeks before he became aware of it. . . .
WILLINGHAM WOKE UP the next day before his body was ready to. A familiar sound, something from his time at Camp Slayer, only louder.
Boom!
Thunder? WTF?
He rubbed his eyes, trying to come out of a dream and back to wherever he was.
Boom!
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