Outsourced

by R. J. Hillhouse

  “I have much children. Please,” the Iraqi said in English.

  “It’s over. They can’t hurt you anymore.” Hunter slowly walked up beside Jackie, put his hand on her shoulder, then grabbed the barrel of the gun with his right hand, spoiling her aim while his left hand came off her shoulder, took hold of the stock and pulled it to him.

  He jacked a round, aimed the AK into the tango’s kill zone and squeezed the trigger.

  The wailing stopped.

  Hunter lowered his head and turned away. Earlier in the day he had actually looked forward to the moment when he would kill Fazul for what he had done to Jackie Nelson and for what he had made Hunter do to her. Now there was neither revenge nor justice in what he did, only mercy and mercy made him feel a little more human in a place where he didn’t want to feel anything at all.

  Chapter Twenty

  “You won’t find MI6 agents in any country where you can’t buy a cappuccino.”

  —Foreign Correspondent, Australian Broadcasting Corporation-TV [Australia], March 29, 2005, interview with Craig Murray, former ambassador for the British Crown

  Anbar Province

  The sun was finally lower in the sky and the temperature was only moderately miserable when Hunter and Jackie climbed into the old VW Beetle that Fazul had returned in. The lanky Arab was slumped against the date palms, fingering Muslim prayer beads and muttering something to himself. Hunter had taken his cell phone, but had assured him that he would call one of the numbers on speed dial and tell them where to find him after they made their escape. He turned the key, but the car didn’t make a sound. The only thing that seemed to be going his way was that Jackie was snapping out of it and she didn’t seem to have any association between him and the repeated rapes. Unfortunately he did.

  He got out of the car and slung the AK over his shoulder. “You know how to start it by popping the clutch?”

  “Yeah, I had one of these when I was in grad school.” After slurping down most of the bucket of water, her voice was stronger. She crawled into the driver’s seat, stomped the clutch and shifted into gear.

  Hunter hiked up his man-dress and dug his feet into the sand and braced his hands on car. The metal was almost too hot to touch, but he would’ve picked up burning coals to get out of there. Hunter pushed, but felt resistance. “Steer it away from the loose sand.”

  The car gained traction and started rolling faster.

  “Pop the clutch! Now!”

  The engine started.

  Hunter glanced back at Omar. He was still fiddling with the beads, probably praying. He opened the driver’s door and threw the AK into the backseat.

  “Move over,” he said. “You still need a lot more fluids. Dehydration affects judgment.”

  “That didn’t really happen, did it? Oh my god. You’re not going to tell anyone?”

  “I have nothing to tell and no one to tell it to,” Hunter said. If only this were the first time he had had this conversation. Iraq had a way of testing morals and sooner or later, everyone failed. Revenge was too easy, the opportunities too many. Multiple combat tours had taught him that it only took a moment of righteous rage to guarantee a thirst for justice that would never be quenched and a faint taste of blood that would never leave his lips.

  Hunter stuck his head out the window and spat, even though his mouth was dry.

  The insurgent’s safe house was in the middle of the desert with no real road leading to it, only a trail that had been packed firm from years of constant use. In spots the desert rippled across it, hiding it from view. So much of Iraq was covered with hard, baked sand, but in this area it was as loose as it was in Saudi. The late afternoon sunlight cast shadows that made the path even trickier to follow. He couldn’t believe that anyone was foolish enough to bring a vehicle with such low clearance through the desert. The road forked and he chose what appeared to be the firmer path. He navigated between ruts and drove as fast as he dared—which was only a little faster than he could’ve walked it.

  A nearly full water bottle rolled out from under Jackie’s seat. “Hey, the gods are finally smiling on us.”

  She opened it and drank, then passed it to Hunter. He drank less than he wanted to and handed back the bottle without looking over at her.

  “You haven’t told me your name,” Jackie said.

  “Ray.”

  “Is that your real name?”

  “Real as it gets.”

  “So you’re CIA?”

  “Don’t overestimate the Agency. Most of them are cocktail party pimps. It’s their local whores who screw the muj, not them.” His voice was clipped.

  “Somehow I didn’t think my husband Brian sent you.”

  “He might have sent someone, but it wasn’t me.”

  “Then what were you doing there, posing as one of them?”

  “It’s complicated.”

  She sighed and turned away from him. “I liked you a lot better when you first rescued me.”

  “I liked me a lot better then, too.”

  After a half hour of silence, Hunter spotted a line of palms, then he saw trucks and cars moving by, but the closer they got to the highway, the more loose sand covered the road. He stopped and got out to make sure that he was still on it. He was. A hundred meters later, the wheels spun in the sand, digging deeper and deeper.

  Don’t you have that guy’s cell phone still in your pocket?” Jackie said.

  “You want to call AAA?”

  “I could call my husband.”

  “You really want to give the muj your home number when their cell phone bill arrives?”

  Hunter walked around the car, then ahead where he thought the road was, but his feet sunk into the soft sand. He returned to the car.

  “We’re going to have to walk to the road,” Hunter said. “Even if we get it out, we can’t get through this. We’ll get stuck again. I don’t know how the hell he got it here, unless maybe we should’ve taken a left back when the road branched.”

  “I don’t know if I can make it,” Jackie said.

  “I’ll get you there.”

  He dug through the junk in the Arab’s backseat, then through the trunk searching for food or water. The guy had stashed away a bottle of whiskey, assorted porn magazines, but no more water. “You did the right thing letting the other Iraqi live. The guy’s not al Qaeda. At least I don’t think this is one of their training manuals.” Hunter held up a dog-eared copy of Playboy.

  With Hunter carrying the AK, they set out for the highway. Lingering alongside a highway in twilight was not his idea of a good time. With their night vision equipment, the Americans ruled the night, but twilight was happy hour for the insurgents—time to lob off a few mortar rounds or ambush a convoy rushing back to the safety of a green zone. The weak, shifting light of dusk played tricks on night vision goggles and Black Hawk pilots and others patrolling the main convoy routes could easily be confused. Friendly fire was the last way Hunter wanted to go.

  “So what are you doing here in Babylon?” Hunter said.

  “I came with my husband. He’s an oil exec.”

  “I thought this was one of those posts where they didn’t allow spouses.”

  “He’s got some kind of pull. I’m a soil scientist and there was going to be all kinds of work for geologists because of the oil. Petroleum is not really my thing, but I’ve got the degrees.”

  A herd of camels grazed in the distance. Hunter couldn’t tell if there was anyone with them or not. “The work didn’t come through or what?”

  “Oil here is a disaster. They’re not back to prewar levels and if anyone tries to tell you they are, they’re lying. There’s no need for geologists here. No one’s looking for new fields. They need engineers to get things running again and to keep patching them up after they’re sabotaged. They could also use about a billion guards to protect the pipelines and the facilities.” Jackie stumbled and Hunter caught her by the arm before she hit the ground.

  “You okay?”


  “More or less—how far away do you think the road is?”

  “Couple miles. Not too bad. I can carry you, if you don’t think you can make it.”

  “I’m okay. But one question, what do we do when we get to the highway?”

  “Hitchhike.” Hunter gave her a thumb’s up. “Except we won’t use our thumbs—that gesture can get you in trouble in these parts. It’s the local version of giving someone the bird. And I’ll have to ditch the AK first.”

  “And how do you think we can get Americans to stop for us when we’re wearing these things?” She tugged on her dishdashah.

  “They won’t, unless you do something crazy like pull your off dress. They’d probably stop for a naked lady. We’re going to have to hitch a ride with the locals and take our chances.”

  “Then I’m stripping.”

  Chapter Twenty-One

  In the documents, which cover nine months of the three-year-old war, contractors reported shooting into 61 vehicles they believed were threatening them. In just seven cases were Iraqis clearly attacking—showing guns, shooting at contractors or detonating explosives.

  There was no way to tell how many civilians were hurt, or how many were innocent: In most cases, the contractors drove away. No contractors have been prosecuted for a mistaken shooting in Iraq.

  —The News & Observer [Raleigh/Durham, NC], March 23, 2006, as reported by Jay Price

  Anbar Province

  Purples and oranges lingered in the sky when Hunter and Jackie spotted a Chevy Suburban leading a convoy of SUVs, American contractors zooming back to a green zone before nightfall. From the several different makes of vehicles, he guessed several companies had banded together for safety. White signs in English and Arabic on each vehicle warned: DANGER. KEEP BACK. AUTHORIZED TO USE LETHAL FORCE.

  “Here’s our big chance,” Jackie said as she started to pull up her dishdashah.

  “Don’t.” Hunter grabbed her arm. She shook him off, surprising him that she suddenly found so much strength.

  “I’ll do whatever it takes.” She pulled the garment over her head and waved it at the approaching vehicles. “Help us! We’re American! Help!”

  The headlights of the first vehicle shined on her naked body. It slowed down, then stopped with the doors cracked open and barrels of assault rifles sticking out. Hunter whispered to her. “This could be a problem for me. Follow my lead.”

  “What the hell are you talking about? We’re saved.”

  “Hands in the air.” Two contract soldiers wearing body armor and carrying AKs hopped out of the Suburban, their weapons trained on Hunter. The doors to the others were partially open and even though he couldn’t see the gun barrels, he knew every one of them had an automatic weapon pointed at him. Whistles and shouts came from the convoy.

  “Shake it, baby,” someone shouted.

  “Put your clothes on, Jackie.” Hunter drew out his words, feigning a Southern drawl.

  “I said hands in the air,” the soldier said. “You, too, honey.”

  “Get dressed now. Slowly.” Hunter turned his head toward the soldier and shouted. “Roadside strip show’s over. She’s had enough humiliation.”

  She slipped the dishdashah over her head, but the catcalls continued.

  “Look, we need a lift. You can tell we’re no threat to you. Feel free to frisk me or I can strip off my man-dress and give everyone another cheap thrill.”

  “I’ll pass on that one.” One of the soldiers patted down Hunter. “I don’t suppose you have any ID on you. What are you doing here like this?”

  “A mission went south. We’re lucky to be alive.” Hunter looked over the vehicles. There were three Ford Expeditions, a Lincoln Navigator and a RhinoRunner. He knew Stella had several Navigators and some Rhino-Runners for VIP transport. But the Ford Expeditions concerned him. They were Rubicon’s signature vehicle.

  The soldier radioed his supervisor, then lowered his weapon. “There’s room in the second vehicle. Welcome back to civilization.”

  Jackie tugged on an Expedition’s reinforced steel door, but it barely moved. Hunter reached around her.

  “I got it. These armored things are a workout.”

  Hunter boosted Jackie into the backseat and two men scooted over to make room for her. Two others sat in the third row of seats. All were dressed in khakis and ruby red T-shirts, Kevlar body armor and photographer’s vests stuffed with ammunition. The real hunters usually didn’t go out until late at night, so he guessed most of these guys were probably bomb disposal experts at the end of their work day. Elvis was blaring from the CD player. Hunter kept his head low, trying to shield his face as much as possible, hoping that whatever he had discovered about Rubicon, they wanted to keep extremely quiet and had not issued a general alert to all their troops. He only wished he knew what the hell the big Rubicon secret was that he supposedly knew. He kept racking his brains for clues and he didn’t even have many of those except Ashland, the spy he recognized in the tango safe house.

  Hunter pretended to check on Jackie, pulling down her lower eyelid, even though it really was too dark to tell if the whites of her eyes were as jaundiced as he assumed they were. She needed more fluids and he could use this to keep the attention on her and reinforce that they were together because Rubicon was searching for a lone runner. “You fellas got a medic kit on you? I need a saline bag to get her hydrated.”

  “Sure thing. We’ve got a medic in the other truck if you need one,” one of the guys behind them said as he reached for a med kit and passed it to Hunter.

  “Thanks, but I can handle it right now.” Hunter unzipped the soft case and set an IV bag, a needle packet and an antiseptic wipe on his lap. He handed the kit back.

  One of the men in the backseat said, “Jimmy, you got any of that Gatorade left?”

  “Yeah.” Jimmy sat twisted to the side, looking out the window, his gun ready for action. He stuck his hand over the seat without turning away. “Here. It’s pretty warm though.”

  “Thanks,” Jackie said. “Any of you guys have a cell phone,” Hunter elbowed her, but she ignored him and continued, “that I could use to call—”

  He put his foot on top of hers and tapped it, then pressed with increasing force.

  “You bet,” the guy next to her said and flipped open his Iraqna phone.

  “I’m only going to tell him we got out alive,” she said in a low voice as she punched in a number. Hunter reached over and hit cancel.

  Two of the men glanced at each other, noting his odd behavior.

  “Sorry,” he mouthed to Jackie. She flashed him a disapproving look, but seemed to be playing along. Hunter rubbed the alcohol wipe on Jackie’s arm, then attached the needle to the IV bag and inserted the catheter.

  “What the hell happened to you two out there?” The team leader said from the front passenger seat as he turned down the music.

  “Just another day at the office.”

  “Not at liberty to say, huh?”

  “Sorry. It would make things a lot safer for us if you’d forget we were ever here.” Hunter squeezed the IV bag to force the saline to flow faster as he monitored the traffic ahead. It was heavy and classic Third World style: every man for himself. Signs, regulations and even lanes were treated as suggestions to be ignored. It was a giant game of chicken at seventy miles an hour on roads broken up by bombings, tank treads and neglect.

  “I don’t know how you spooky types do it. I’ll take working with bombs any day. Hell of a lot safer.”

  Hunter wanted to get the conversation off them fast and the best way to distract an EOD guy was to get him started talking about bombs. “So do you guys run with ECM?” Hunter knew the vehicles of the best contractors were all equipped with electronic counter measures which would send out signals that detonate any radio-controlled roadside bombs ahead of them.

  “They don’t do much good anymore. The tangos have imported a passive infrared trick from Hezbollah—thank you Iran.”

  “ECMs really
don’t work?”

  “Nope. Not with a totally passive infrared system. You enter the IR footprint of one of those and you’re Swiss cheese—even in one of these armored babies.”

  “Anything you can do about them?” Hunter said as he watched a pickup overloaded with refrigerators and stoves slow down to give them room.

  “The recommendation is to use thermal vision to spot a temp differential from the surrounding objects, but I think your best bet is never to ride in the front vehicle.”

  “Head’s up. White van tracking us. Over there on the service road,” one of the shooters said as he pointed his AK at the driver.

  The Ford Expedition weaved in and out of traffic, speeding up. One hundred ten. One hundred fifteen. One hundred twenty miles an hour and the speed was increasing. Heavy bulletproof windows couldn’t always be trusted to roll back up when it counted the most, so the men sitting by the doors cracked them open and stuck the barrels of their weapons outside. Without exchanging a word, the guy sandwiched in the middle passed Hunter his weapon. Hunter shoved the IV bag into Jackie’s lap and opened the door just enough.

  The white van sped up.

  “What do you think?”

  “Not good.”

  The Rubicon SUV ahead of them swerved toward the ditch, kicking up dust. Suddenly Hunter saw why. A compact car stuffed with a family was in front of them, creeping along the road and they were hurtling toward it. In a fraction of a second, they were on its bumper. The Rubicon driver swung into the shoulder, passing the car on the right, driving into the dust cloud. The Ford Expedition bounced so hard Hunter’s head hit the door frame and he started to fall out the door. He grabbed for anything he could find and held on to the seatbelt as he hung outside the door. Even though visibility was only inches, he was staring straight down at a blur of garbage, churned-up earth and discarded plastic bags.

  He snagged his foot under the passenger seat and pulled himself upright into the cab. Seconds later they emerged from the dust cloud, four feet from the white van. The van’s driver pointed something at him.