“Circle to the other side and dip down. I want to see if he’s inside and injured.”
“You got it.” Beach Dog maneuvered the Little Bird in low and pitched it slightly forward. The Hawk’s door was open on the pilot’s side and Camille could see through the front windows. No Hunter.
“He must’ve split when the dust was kicking up,” Beach Dog said.
“He’s got to be in one of these houses. Set it down. I’m going in.”
“With all due respect, Lady Rambo, you’re fucking nuts.”
Beach Dog had a point and she knew it. She didn’t take time to grab body armor or even extra rounds for the M-4. No way was Hunter going to come to her after she had shot at his helicopter this morning. She wouldn’t be surprised if he even thought she was the one who knocked him out of the air. He had no more reason to trust her now than she’d had to trust him, maybe even a little less. “Fall back to a safe distance. I’m bringing in the cavalry for a door to door search.”
Chapter Thirty-Six
Jabal ad Dhibban, Anbar Province
Hunter heard the thud of the second helo hitting the ground as he hauled ass down the alleyway. A tango’s RPG must have hit Stella’s bird. He hoped to god she survived the crash with only enough injuries to keep her from coming after him. His tongue probed the inside of his mouth and confirmed what he had feared: he’d swallowed the damn tooth during the hard landing.
He ducked into the first open doorway he found. An old lady was rubbing raw wool between her palms, making yarn while she watched a game show on TV. A horde of kids was playing with a half-inflated yellow balloon. She screamed and the children joined in as they scrambled to get behind the woman.
“It’s okay. It’s okay. I’m not going to hurt you,” he said in Arabic, as he pulled on his pants. He raised his voice and repeated himself so she could hear him over their high-pitched shrieks, then he heard a helicopter moving above the building. It wasn’t as loud as a Black Hawk; it sounded smaller, more like a Little Bird. What was a second helo doing there so fast?
The woman started to settle down and was now breathing hard, trying to catch her breath.
“Don’t hurt us.”
“Give me the biggest jilbab you’ve got and a headscarf and I’ll go. You’re going to be all right. Get me the clothes. Now!” He grabbed her arm and pulled her to her feet as gently as he could without losing any speed. Man-handling an old lady got to him, but he had to get a sense of urgency across to her. Women aged so fast here. He told himself she was probably not more than ten years older than he was. But even if they were the same age, it still didn’t make it right.
Chapter Thirty-Seven
Jabal ad Dhibban, Anbar Province
The belly of the Little Bird deflected some light gunfire from the locals as it hovered low over the village while Camille and Beach Dog searched for any sign of Hunter. Wherever he was, he was staying put. When she realized the sound of their helicopter was probably making him feel pinned down, she ordered Beach Dog to climb to a safe altitude. Camp Tornado Point was less than fifty kilometers away and it would take the Black Hawks under ten minutes once they were airborne. Beach Dog flew in a high holding pattern while they waited for the Black Management troops to arrive. With any luck, Hunter would chance a dash between buildings and they’d get a bead on his position.
The airframe of the Rubicon helicopter had rolled on its side on impact a few hundred meters outside the village. There was no movement around it, but Camille knew that didn’t mean much. The cabin was a defensible position, offering shelter from the sun, which was already starting to bake. The crew could be sitting inside, waiting for rescue. The downed crew was Rubicon’s problem, not hers. She would help with a little close air support only if the tangos moved in around them in serious numbers.
Using binoculars, Camille watched two helos flying toward them from the direction of Camp Tornado Point. From their last reported position, she didn’t expect to have a visual on them yet, but she guessed that she could see farther than anticipated in the clear desert air.
“Whatcha gonna do about Rubicon shooting down our bird?” Beach Dog worked the cyclic as they circled above the village. “You’re not going to let them get away with it, are you?”
“No way. I’d say they’ve crossed the Rubicon.”
“Huh?”
“The die’s cast.” The two helicopters were now close enough for Camille to get a good look—Russian-made, with diagonal ruby stripes bordered in white: Rubicon. “When Julius Caesar marched his army across the Rubicon River, he knew he was starting a civil war in Rome. Rubicon crossed the line today. I’d say we’re looking at the same thing—civil war.”
Part Two
Civil Wars
Through most of the Bush administration, the CIA high command has been engaged in a bitter struggle with the Pentagon.
—CNN., September 27, 2004, as reported by Robert Novak
“This is a turf battle,” said retired Army Col. W. Patrick Lang, former head of Middle Eastern affairs for the Defense Intelligence Agency. “All of this represents that clandestine human intelligence in the Department of Defense is a growth industry and that it is no longer regarding itself as under the control of the CIA.”
—The Los Angeles Times, March 24, 2005, as reported by
Mark Mazzetti and Greg Miller
Chapter Thirty-Eight
With every week of insurgency in a war zone with no front, these companies are becoming more deeply enmeshed in combat, in some cases all but obliterating distinctions between professional troops and private commandos. Company executives see a clear boundary between their defensive roles as protectors and the offensive operations of the military. But more and more, they give the appearance of private, for-profit militias.
—The New York Times, April 19, 2004, as reported by David Barstow
Jabal ad Dhibban, Anbar Province
Camille and Beach Dog hovered over the village in the Little Bird and watched the Rubicon Russian-built Mi-8 helos come in low over the field near their downed aircraft, but they didn’t stop. One landed at the side of the village and the other continued on. Camille shook her head. “Un-fucking believable. Rubicon’s going after Hunter before helping their own guys. It really is a war. What do you think? Have you ever taken on two birds at once?”
“You have to waste them now while they’re on the ground and vulnerable. Our guns have a longer range, but Hawks can take a beating Little Birds can’t,” Beach Dog said as he scanned the skies.
Camille radioed her base at Camp Tornado Point and her ops center at Camp Raven in Baghdad to see what was taking them so long and learned that something big had happened a half hour ago near the Syrian border and the Marines were asking for everything Black Management had. Her operations officers were scrambling to redeploy equipment from Mosul and Tikrit so they wouldn’t be left shorthanded. She couldn’t believe that she owned a small army, but when she actually needed it, it was stretched too thin to give her the resources she requested. It was little comfort to know that Rubicon was probably in the same position and couldn’t afford to send many additional helicopters to their private skirmish.
Rubicon troops piled out of the first helicopter while the second one moved into position on the far side of the village. Camille leaned over and read the altimeter—3200 feet. “Let’s show them we’re serious. You up for a high angle strafing run?” Camille wanted to swoop down fast with the machine guns blazing and blast her own line in the sand, daring Rubicon to cross it.
“The Beach Dog’s always game.” He checked the gun switches, then looked down to study the terrain.
“Then let’s add some pep to their step. I don’t want to hurt anyone right now. You see any Iraqis in the way, abort.”
“Unless you’ve done a lot of these, I’d feel more comfortable working the gun, ma’am.”
“All yours, Dog.”
“Got your leash on nice and tight?” Beach Dog tugged on Camille’s r
estraints. “Initiating firing pass. Hang on, we’re surfing air!” The words had hardly left Beach Dog’s mouth when the nose of the Little Bird suddenly dipped.
Camille gasped as the helo dropped. The angle of attack was so steep, the four-point safety harness was all that held her back from crashing through the windshield and the bubble window of the Little Bird didn’t help steady her nerves—it gave her an unobstructed panorama of the approaching red earth. They were a good thousand feet away from the second Mi-8 helo, still gaining speed when Beach Dog fired a burst and started leveling off. A line of dust and sand puffed into the air, fifty feet away from the Rubicon helo. Beach Dog kept firing, drawing a line almost up to the wheels of the Rubicon Hawk.
“Yeah, baby!” Beach Dog shouted as he broke away from the target with evasive turns that tossed Camille back and forth in her seat.
“Now get us the hell away from here. I want out of range of their guns. As far as I know, Rubicon’s helos are outfitted with old M60s, but we’re starting to go back to Mod Deuces on ours, so keep over two clicks between us at all times just in case they’ve also switched over to the older, longer range runs.” She turned away from Beach Dog, gazed down at the village and whispered to herself, “Hang in there, Hunter. We’ll get you as soon as we can.”
Chapter Thirty-Nine
Jabal ad Dhibban, Anbar Province
The old lady was tiny even for a withered Arab grandmother and she barely came up to Hunter’s chest. Black covered her from head to toe. Hunter helped her yank an oriental carpet off an antique brass chest with intricate geometric forms engraved into it, a treasure chest from A Thousand and One Nights. Under other circumstances he would’ve enjoyed taking a good look at it.
Praying out loud for mercy, her frail upper body rocked back and forth as she lifted stacks of clothes from the chest. It was taking her forever, but Hunter didn’t have the heart to push the petrified woman any harder.
Then he heard the familiar whoosh of large transport helicopters. Stella was bringing in reinforcements. He couldn’t believe it. She had to be bringing in troops for a block by block search and he knew he had to get out of the area before they sealed it off.
“Come on! Hurry it up!”
The woman prayed louder and her arms began to shake. She lifted up a light gray Muslim woman’s overcoat. He took it and shook it out. It was several sizes too large for the old lady, but many times too small for him. Originally, he had just been looking to make his head and shoulders blend in while they searched from the air, but if they were doing a ground search, he doubted he could pass, not with his facial fuzz.
Without warning, the rapid pop of machine gun spray came from the street. The woman and children fell to the floor in a cacophony of screams while a helicopter shrieked low overhead, a Fury swooping down from the heavens in relentless pursuit. At the moment it was easy to picture Stella with wreathes of snakes on her head.
Hell hath no fury like a Stella scorned.
Chapter Forty
Referring to Rumsfeld’s new authority for covert operations, the first Pentagon adviser told me, “It’s not empowering military intelligence. It’s emasculating the C.I.A.”
—The New Yorker, January 24, 2005, as reported by Seymour Hersh
The Green Zone, Baghdad
With all of its plasma flat panel monitors, satellite uplinks and people running around with wireless headsets and microphones, the Baghdad Rubicon Solutions command center reminded Joe Chronister more of a high-tech television studio than the ops centers he’d known back at Langley. Private companies sure had the money for all the latest toys and he could definitely understand why so many operators went over to places like Rubicon.
The CIA veteran’s cover as a Rubicon oil exec made it plausible that he would be seen in the headquarters of the company’s military branch, but he still didn’t like being there. Rubicon’s upper management was aware that he worked for the Agency and they had arranged for his cover. And Ashland, as his liaison to the local component of SHANGRI-LA, also knew, but he didn’t want anyone else getting suspicious.
Chronister had to straighten out Larry Ashland before the eager beaver created a mess he wasn’t sure they could mop up. He didn’t slow down as he passed the desk of Ashland’s new assistant. Ashland was on the phone, talking on one of those fancy wireless headsets. Chronister shut the door and motioned for him to hang up. He had the kind of boyish face and self-righteous smirk that made Chronister want to take a swing at him. He’d give him three more seconds and if he didn’t stop the conversation, he’d personally rip the silly headpiece off his head.
“What the hell were you thinking, ordering your men to knock off Hunter Stone?” Chronister leaned on Ashland’s smoked glass desktop, intentionally smearing it with handprints. “I had it all set up so that Camille Black would take care of him for us. If Rubicon does it, she’ll be on our ass forever. Trust me. I’ve known this woman for years. She’s powerful, connected and she doesn’t forget.”
“We can’t let him get back to Zulu.”
“And that’s why you ordered Rubicon to shoot down his Black Hawk a few seconds before he got into Camille’s crosshairs? You dumb ass.” Chronister could hear his Brooklyn accent get stronger as he raised his voice. “The whole goddamn mess would’ve been over with right then and there. Zulu would’ve chalked the whole thing up to a lover’s spat and Camille would’ve blamed Stone for Rubicon poaching her job sites. Now we’ve got a bona fide goat fuck on our hands. Zulu’s going to find out Rubicon’s either killed or is trying to kill one of their boys and eventually, they’re going to trace it back to me. And linking it to me is as good as fingering the Agency. And if that happens, we are really fucked. The Pentagon’s been looking for an excuse to put us out of business and they’ll be all over SHANGRI-LA, you dumb-fuck.”
Chronister could feel his chest tightening as he continued, “And Camille Black, she’s a fucking barracuda. You can’t just send her flowers and say ‘whoops, I’m sorry.’ You started a war with the lady and she owns one of the best militaries around.” Chronister pointed to the door. “And why isn’t your ass out there monitoring the action in real-time?”
“If will be as soon as we end this pleasant conversation.” Ashland smiled wide enough to show off his perfect set of teeth, just begging for some emergency dentistry at Chronister’s hand. “Stone could’ve talked to Black. We had to make sure he didn’t.”
“Hello? She was about to shoot him out of the air, you dickhead. And I hear she spent all last night fucking his brains out.” God, he loved Camille. That woman had balls. Big hairy balls.
“Is she insane?” Ashland squinted and shook his head in his pretty boy version of does-not-compute.
“You’re going to find out if you don’t get your ass in there right now and stop a war. First you better make sure word goes down the pipeline not to hurt Stone. I want to have a heart-to-heart with the guy, find out exactly how much Zulu knows about the project and if he told anything to Black. I’m sick of relying on you fuck-ups and it’s time I find out for myself.”
“It may be too late.”
“What the hell are you talking about?”
“We have troops on the ground searching for him. They have orders to neutralize on sight.”
“Let’s get this straight,” Chronister said as he thrust his finger at Ashland as if it were firing off a missile. He hated his guts so much, Chronister was starting to think his feelings were making him cut the asshole too much slack and chalk up everything to incompetence. He had assumed Ashland’s aggressive actions to try to take out Stone were because the guy was a prick, but maybe there was something else to him. He would have to keep an eye on him more closely to make sure he didn’t have another agenda. Chronister continued, “I want to know exactly what Stone and the Pentagon know about my involvement with SHANGRI-LA. You better bring him to me alive. Whatever happens to Stone—for whatever reason—is going to happen to you, but much slower. That’s a promise you
can take to the bank.”
Chapter Forty-One
Jabal ad Dhibban, Anbar Province
Hunter shoved his arms in the women’s overcoat, ripping the seams along the way. The old woman glared at him. After a deep breath, he sucked in his chest, pulled the light gray jilbab closed and managed to button the top. His pant legs were rolled up as high as he could get them, but they still showed under what should have been a floor-length garment. He didn’t need a mirror to know his disguise looked like crap.
Rummaging through the brass chest, he found a couple swaths of cloth. He stuffed scraps of cloth into a bundle while the kids watched in fear from the bedroom doorway. Even though it made him feel sick to take away one of their few toys, he picked the partially deflated balloon up off the floor and worked it into his bundle, rounding out the front. He tied it up, then using the longer piece of material he fastened it low around his midsection in a sort of cummerbund. Soldiers didn’t tend to stare at pregnant ladies; they usually looked away pretty quickly. He was counting on it.
He slipped back into the overcoat and tied the scarf over his head, wishing he had shaved off the moustache and beard when he’d had the chance. Arab women did often seem to have a bit of a five o’clock shadow, but his was really pushing it. He hunched down, bowed his head and waved at the terrified family as he stepped out the doorway.
Chapter Forty-Two
Anbar Province
Camille’s Little Bird intercepted the Black Management Hawks a few kilometers before Ramadi. Camille ordered the lead Black Hawk to set down in a field there, so she could swap places and equipment with her Chief Operations Officer, Manuel “Iggy” Ignatius. Camille knew her proper place was in the Little Bird, directing both air and ground battles, but this was too personal and her passions too dangerous. She was putting Iggy in charge of the skirmish and herself in the middle of it. Iggy was an alum of Delta Force, Gray Fox and CIA Special Activities Division and she could think of no better hands to place herself in, even though one of those hands was made from carbon composites, a prosthetic hand, courtesy of the Taliban.
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