by Jay Kopelman
“And the band plays Waltzing Matilda, and the old men still answer the call. Year after year, their numbers get fewer, someday no one will march there at all.”
But you only get so much luck, that’s my theory these days, and the fact that I’m still alive, the fact that I’m just about to get my fifth pint of Guinness in a pub in Ireland at five forty-five in the morning while my comrades get louder and the bartender gets sterner and I get drunker, means I’m probably scraping the bottom of the barrel.
CHAPTER THIRTY
March 2005
Baghdad
AT HIS COMPOUND in the Green Zone, David Mack looks over the list of Lava’s paperwork Ben e-mailed him this morning. It can’t be legitimate, can it?
He scans Lava’s documentation from the perspective of the checkpoint patrols who will decide the puppy’s fate by either letting him cross into the Green Zone or turning him away. It includes an International Health Veterinary Certificate for Live Animals from the Ministry of Agriculture of the Republic of Iraq—a translated document, signed and certified, with the original in Arabic attached—and an International Certificate of Vaccination and Health for Dogs.
“This is all I have,” Ben wrote.
While it looks pretty good, David wonders how they managed to get it.
At the NPR compound in the Red Zone, Sam teaches Lava some of the finer points of soccer so that when he emigrates to the United States, he will represent Iraq well.
Lava still hasn’t grown into the leather belt that overwhelms his neck, but Sam tells him it makes him different from the other dogs wandering around Baghdad and that he should wear it like a uniform and be proud.
“Lava is happy,” Ben Gilbert writes.
If Ben Gilbert can get Lava through the first checkpoint between the Red Zone and the Green Zone on March 29, he’ll meet David Mack on Saddam Hussein’s parade grounds near the Hands of Victory Monument. From there David will get Lava on a private convoy to the airport and into the hands of a Triple Canopy dog handler, Brad Ridenour, who’s scheduled to fly with some of Vohne Liche’s dogs back to the States where they will get a long-deserved rest from sniffing out bombs.
While getting Lava across the checkpoint between the Red Zone and the Green Zone will prove the most technically difficult part of the rescue, the trip to the airport will be the most physically dangerous by far. An entire Marine battalion patrols the four-lane, six-mile road leading from the Green Zone to Baghdad International Airport, but because the highway is one of the most vital supply routes in Iraq for the US military and private contractors and is traversed daily by convoys of Marines, businessmen, and journalists, it’s considered “target-rich” by the insurgency.
In the past two months alone, dozens of people have been killed on the highway by roadside bombs, sniper bullets, suicide bombers, private security contractors, and the US military itself. It is called the Road of Death.
At the NPR compound, Anne’s replacement, Anthony Kuhn, files one of his last stories before he leaves Baghdad. It’s about the release of Giuliana Sgrena, the Italian journalist who was abducted by insurgents just before Anne left, and about how speeding on her way to the Baghdad International Airport with the two men who negotiated her release, their Toyota Corolla was targeted and hit.
Sgrena, who’d just spent one month in a dark room courtesy of the Islamic Jihad Organization, was hit in the shoulder by shrapnel. One of the mediators who sat next to her in the backseat, Nicola Calipari, was shot in the head and killed.
Only it wasn’t the insurgency this time. It was a US tank posted on the road to protect a convoy transporting US ambassador John Negroponte to the airport.
“Late Friday, President Bush spoke by phone from Air Force One with Prime Minister Silvio Berlusconi,” Kuhn reports, adding that the president expressed “regret” at the incident and pledged a full investigation.
“Italian politicians criticized the incident and Sgrena’s newspaper, Il Manifesto, announced that instead of celebrating her return, an antiwar rally is now planned.”
Ben Gilbert tells us that a journalist stationed in Baghdad by ABC heard about Lava and wants to do a story about his escape. The journalist, who has credentials to get through the Green Zone checkpoint, offered to escort Lava from the NPR compound to David Mack at Saddam Hussein’s parade grounds if his station got an exclusive story from it.
Sam gets Lava ready and gives him another bath.
Meanwhile I’m stuck in the States at Camp Pendleton wondering when things changed so much that I now consider the United States of America a place in which to be stuck.
But stuck I am, and I’m reading all these e-mails and have no control over what’s happening in them. It’s like reading a book and all I can do to find out what happens in the end is turn the page.
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
March 2005
California
JOHN VAN ZANTE has to make the final flight arrangements for Chicago, but he needs to finish up the e-mail to members of the San Diego media about the dangers of Easter first.
“While this release is mainly about Easter plants that are toxic to pets . . . please see the note about why it’s a TERRIBLE idea to buy bunnies and chicks for Easter.”
Things finally seem to be going Lava’s way. It is the closest they’ve come to getting him home.
“Remember that bunnies grow up to be rabbits that chew on everything, are subject to eye ailments, need their fur and nails clipped, and pee on everything!”
John has been on the phone for three days with Kris Parlett from Iams and Ken Licklider from Vohne Liche Kennels to map out the strategy: If Lava makes it from the Red Zone to the Green Zone and if he makes it from the Green Zone to the Baghdad airport and if he makes it from the Baghdad airport to the States, then the three of them will be waiting at O’Hare in Chicago when he arrives. The important part will be getting media at the airport in Chicago.
“Those cute, fuzzy baby chicks lose the fluff and it’s replaced with feathers. Then they become chickens that cluck, crow, and poop.
“And when the bunnies and chicks become adults, their owners give them away, abandon them, or ignore them until they’re too sick to survive.”
What began four months ago as a mission to bring media attention to the center’s Home 4 the Holidays event and homeless animals is now a personal mission to get Lava out of Iraq. But it’s more than that.
When John heard that ABC was interested in doing a story about Lava’s escape, he e-mailed everyone a list of names—Anne Garrels, Anthony Kuhn, Lourdes Garcia-Navarro, Ben Gilbert, Triple Canopy Security’s dog handler Brad Ridenour—and asked who else should be publicly thanked.
Ben Gilbert wrote him back almost immediately.
Hi Everyone, I understand that a lot of people have gotten on board with this, but I would really appreciate it, that if there is a press conference of some sort, that someone mentions [Sam] who took care of Lava from the time he arrived in Baghdad. [Sam] got the shots for Lava. He got the doggie passport, the letter from the Ministry of Agriculture and went to the translator who certified the letter. He bought Lava biscuits, a toy, and most importantly . . . played with him, giving him much needed love and attention. [Sam] also tried to arrange previous trips for Lava’s route through Jordan by car, kept ‘doggedly’ pursuing a way for Lava to find his way to the States . . .
So hats off to everyone for making this happen, but [Sam] has cared for Lava over the past month, and he is asking for nothing in return.
It would be a great honor to him to be mentioned on American TV as a contributor to this successful operation. I feel strongly about this.
I think it’s more important for his name to be mentioned than NPR’s.
John stares at his computer screen. One year ago, the dangers of Easter seemed important enough.
“We’ll be happy to work with you on a story about this. Not all doom and gloom, but some positive reasons why bunnies and chicks are not good Easter gifts.�
��
Now they seem absurd.
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
April 2005
California
I HEARD SOMEONE say once that passionate people live violent lives. At the time, I didn’t really get it, but if what they meant was the way love waits in ambush, traps your well-trained sense of control, and then tortures you into a confession you’d just as soon not make, I now understand.
The first part of the confession is that I let Lava get to me. I unlocked my cool, let the little shit right in, and after that, all sorts of things seeped through, including fear. I mean, I guess it’s fear that’s doing this to me. Maybe it’s just what the therapist calls post-traumatic stress, even though I’ve only been home for a week; or maybe it’s just residue from the sleeping pills still floating through my bloodstream, or maybe some chemical imbalance brought on recently by any number of issues, but hell, what else besides fear could cause this much panic?
Anxiety, maybe. Anxiety assumes less culpability, implies less of an offense, offers more of an excuse. Or obsession, perhaps, but that implies a lifetime of prescription slips from the therapist, and besides, not everyone involved in the rescue—the Marines, the journalists, the Iraqis, the private security guys—could be crazy. Maybe they could. Nothing seems right-side up anymore and hasn’t for some time now.
Maybe it’s just compulsiveness. Along with nightmares, flashbacks, moodiness, alcoholism, and depression, they said something about a compulsive disorder that could send your brain cells scurrying into all sorts of witless directions, and between checking incoming e-mail, praying for the phone to ring, and counting the paces between one wall and the next, it seems entirely plausible.
But then, so did getting Lava out of Iraq in the first place, and how impeachable was that offense after Allah, Jehovah, Jesus, Lady Luck, and Santa Claus made it pretty clear it wasn’t on their list of things to do this year?
I check the e-mail again. Nothing. It’s the middle of the day there in Baghdad, the middle of the night here in California, and no time in particular to me everywhere else in between. Something must have gone wrong.
The second part of the confession is that once you let fear in, it’s hard to get rid of, and the more you try, the deeper it digs its heels. Four months ago, I wasn’t afraid of anything, at least that’s how I remember it in comparison to now when I’m afraid of everything including the voice on my computer announcing new mail.
I think the pacing is what’s getting to me. The back-and-forth unearths all kinds of radioactive crap I don’t want hanging around. Like a lot of faces. Weird, dreamy faces. Faces of stray dogs I fed at the Syrian border. Faces of embedded journalists in Fallujah with terror dripping down them like sweat. Faces of Iraqis smashed into the street like ripe banana meat under your boot and the question of whether a face is really a face if there’s no one home behind it.
Mostly, though, faces of people who risked their lives to try to save Lava. They bother me the most. I think we all let the mangy little flea-bitten refugee get to us—as if love were some sinister germ intent on infection—and now that we’ve all been bitten by the contagion, now that it comes down to the end, now that all other roads of escape are closed for good, I feel I owe it to them to make sure Lava gets out alive.
Maybe the little shit is dead already. Or maybe they didn’t make it through and he’s now lost on the streets of Baghdad wondering where everybody went. I pray that if Lava doesn’t make it through, he’ll find a body somewhere in Baghdad to keep him alive for just one more day.
Which brings me to the last part of my confession: I want Lava to stay alive. No matter how bad things get, it’s still better to be alive. I want to know he’s breathing and leaping after dust balls and chasing imaginary enemies in his sleep. I want him to be alive, because then there’s still hope that he’ll make it here to California and get to be an American dog who runs on the beach and chases the mailman instead of strangers with guns. I want him to be alive almost more than anything I can think of, which feels like a confession, because before Lava, I was a Marine who wasn’t required to cross any lines with ALIVE on one side and DEAD on the other. I carried a rucksack full of coupons redeemable towards absolution. Now, after meeting Lava and letting fear in, I feel distantly related to a serial killer.
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
April 2005
SO THIS IS fear. This is what it all comes down to: waiting for an e-mail.
Fear’s got nothing to do with pain or eternal damnation or existence that’s been canceled. There are no improvised explosive devices in this arena. No trip wires or vulnerable porta-shitters or sandstorms that take your chopper down.
Your own death has nothing much to do with it in the end. Ask anyone who’s been there—the beheaded, the burned, the blown to bits—I bet they’d give you an earful. Death, buddy, is death. Slit, boom, bang. One minute you’re alive; the next minute you’re dead, and once that happens, once you finally experience what you’ve worried about all your life, that’s it. There’s nothing else to worry about.
It’s just all the in-between stuff. All the waiting.
At the NPR compound, Ben Gilbert puts Lava in a vehicle with the ABC cameraman. They hide Lava (in ways that can’t be detailed), because no animals are allowed to pass from the Red Zone into the Green.
Security around the Green Zone is cinched tighter than usual after a United Nations report indicated “irregularities” with the election, demonstrations raged, and insurgents fired mortar rounds into the Green Zone’s concrete barrier. If they get to the checkpoint, and the driver doesn’t look right, the vehicle is the wrong color, if Lava so much as farts, it’s all over.
The vehicle takes off. Sam waves good-bye.
Meanwhile, across the city, a roadside bomb kills three Iraqi policemen and wounds five, a car bomb kills seven people and wounds nine, and more mortar rounds are launched into the Green Zone.
And I’ve gotten to wondering, as I sit here and wait for the e-mail to arrive, if that’s what the suicide bombers tell themselves—that their lack of control over death makes everything but death a waste of energy. I mean, to blow yourself up has got to hurt, right? Even if it’s only for a fraction of a second, there is still that fraction of a second to look forward to when your skin tears away from your bones and your brain goes one way and your toes go another and every form of torture devised by man comes together in one single fraction of a second that you’ve been hardwired to avoid since sperm met egg. But they do it anyway. They disconnect their own internal wiring and pull the detonator anyway.
And, I mean, you gotta ask: Why?
I figure they just get tired of waiting.
The vehicle speeds through the streets of the Red Zone without stopping as a videotape is posted on the Internet showing three Iraqis being executed for working for the US military and as a memo is released to the press indicating that a top US commander in Iraq authorized illegal interrogation tactics that included using military guard dogs to “exploit Arab fear of dogs.”
The rest of us, we just pace back and forth, check our e-mail, stare at the computer, and worry about what’s being arranged for us in some other galaxy. We wait. We worry. We wait.
The vehicle inches forward through the checkpoint line. Exhaust and heat vapors marbleize the air. The driver stares forward. The cameraman counts rolls in the concertina wire outside his window.
Over on the other side of town, dozens of insurgents attack the Abu Ghraib prison with car bombs and rocket-propelled grenades just as the US National Guard announces back home that it is easing restrictions on recruitment and now accepts anyone with at least a ninth-grade education.
Wait.
David Mack stands at the drop-off point in the Green Zone under the Hands of Victory Monument, a triumphal arch of two fists holding two swords made from the melted guns of Iraqi soldiers killed in the Iran–Iraq War that soar 140 feet into the air and meet in the middle where the helmets of captured Iranian soldie
rs hang in a net. The fists that hold the swords are replicas of Saddam’s own hands. One of the thumbs on one of the hands replicates Saddam’s own fingerprint.
Even at a time like this, you’ve got to admit that it makes a point.
Wait.
A bomb dog circles the vehicle as a guard reaches through the window and checks the cameraman’s pass. The pass is good; it’s the bomb dog detecting Lava that poses the threat.
But he’s in search of only one thing. When he doesn’t find it, he’s off to the next vehicle. The guard scans the pass and waves them through into the Green Zone where, at that moment, the Iraqi government huddles behind the concrete barrier and extends the country’s emergency state by an additional thirty days.
Wait.
Brad Ridenour’s plane lands at Baghdad International Airport. John Van Zante’s plane lands at O’Hare in Chicago. In Indiana, Ken Licklider checks his watch one last time.
Wait some more.
Iraqi police patrolling the parade grounds watch a vehicle trailing dust approach the Hands of Victory Monument and stop. They watch one man get out of the vehicle and shake hands with another, watch the two men exchange some papers, watch a dog jump out of the car.
They approach the vehicle. They ask to see the papers. They ask what the purpose of the dog is.
“He’s a working bomb dog,” one of the men says. “I’m taking him back to my compound.”