by Roy David
Frantic, she tapped the policeman hard on his left shoulder. He turned round and she slipped to his right, squeezing past him before he could react. The hotel entrance doors opened. Alex could see the President walking brusquely towards her, surrounded by half a dozen agents. One tried to grab her wrist, but she pushed him aside. The President fixed her, a look of puzzlement on his face. Alex glared at him and he avoided her gaze, walking on and scurrying through the open door of his waiting car.
She just wished she’d had her camera to hand. The sheepish look on the President’s face would have been a sight to capture.
* * *
On the way back to Alex’s apartment hand in hand, Steve volunteered to collect a takeaway from a well-regarded Thai restaurant on the next block.
‘Good,’ Alex said. ‘I’ll go up and make sure the place is presentable.’
Opening her front door, she rushed over to her desk. Picking up the envelope containing the Northwood email, she stared at it for a few seconds. Then she switched on the small machine on the floor and watched as the last remnants of a previous life turned to shreds and was gone.
Later, nestled on the sofa with Steve, they watched McDermott’s medal presentation on the early-evening television news bulletins. Most channels made it their lead story and some stations followed on with a piece from the post-ceremony interview.
‘This guy’s gonna’ be big,’ Steve said.
‘I’m afraid he is,’ Alex said, sighing. ‘But will he handle it?’
She turned to Steve, her face questioning. He ran the back of a finger gently down her cheek.
‘Can we forget about it all for now?’ he said. ‘I’ve got two days left of my R and R – how do you think we should spend it?’
Alex smiled, drawing him closer and letting him begin kissing her passionately.
20
Gene Kowolski trod what was becoming a well-worn path of unease on the cheap beige carpet of his room, even though he and McDermott had only been on camp a little over twenty-four hours.
Some people said the cantonment of Fort Hood had that effect on its visitors. The sheer size of the world’s largest military base and its 70,000 inhabitants meant it radiated drabness on a large scale; a sprawling mass of Texas flat land, its unrelenting uniformity like a repressive governor on the soul.
He’d felt the depression descending like a fog since passing the small town of Copperas Cove on the 190, heading east to the spread that now consumed him. The base struck him as almost as hot and dusty as Baghdad itself. Kowolski’s demeanour had not been helped by the lieutenant’s address to several hundred selected troops, a short presentation billed ‘My Heroism in Iraq’.
Kowolski watched frowning as McDermott faltered, forgetting many of the points they’d rehearsed. He glanced round the conference hall straining for any sign of a negative reaction. But the audience, while not exactly overwhelmed, seemed surprisingly receptive. For a moment, he wondered if he’d been too hard on McDermott, expected too much from the guy. Was Kowolski’s coaching, his urging, that difficult to comprehend? Perhaps so, after all, McDermott was a soldier, not a politician.
Dissecting the performance afterwards, Kowolski still couldn’t get away from thinking the lieutenant’s frame of mind had deteriorated in the week they’d been on the road. The media response didn’t reveal that, of course. True to a man, they cheered and burnished the emerging star until it shone as a beacon to the thousands of men and women serving in Iraq. Those soldiers waiting to embark for their first taste of the action, too, could not have failed to be inspired by the media’s embellishment. Newspapers and television pushed McDermott to the fore, the glorification of one soldier’s deeds like a salve for the nation’s conscience. Even his home town was now festooned with yellow ribbons on every street and municipal building, each bearing the lieutenant’s name in blue. Makers of the two-dollar strips of cloth were working hard to keep up with demand from the rest of the country.
Although it was still too early to measure the McDermott effect on the President’s popularity, the latest opinion polls were a major source of irritation. Kowolski grimaced as he devoured the statistics, showing a slip in the ratings of three per cent. And this before the President made an appearance in Congress to ask for more funds to sustain the war. Kowolski heard the amount being sought for next year was more than 80 billion dollars. People were beginning to get restless, impatient as to how long the bloody mess of Iraq was going to feature in their lives.
He forced himself to take stock of his situation. Once the McDermott road show finished, he knew he’d have to return to Baghdad. The thought now filled him with dread. Initially, he’d envisaged a three-month stint there – six months max – returning to Washington to a bucketful of praise for a job well done. The chaos of Iraq was already entering its seventh month and, from what he’d picked up, it was going to go on for a good deal longer.
Pouring himself a whisky, he threw it back in one, his mind lurching one way then another. Could he face the chaotic dissonance of Baghdad again? The bombings, the shootings, the destruction? How much longer could he hold out? He’d gone there full of it: full of optimism, full of himself. There’d even been a tinge of excitement that he’d be working in the middle of a war zone – perhaps the same buzz that drove media correspondents from country to strife-ridden country.
But he now knew it was a mirage, the reality too stark, too brutal to initially imagine. It wasn’t just the McDermott situation that had deflated his enthusiasm. In a way, the lieutenant’s strange behaviour only magnified a growing realisation within him. Kowolski’s time away from Iraq had given him time to think. For the first time in this present role of his working life, he seriously wondered if he wasn’t cut out for the job. First-hand experience led him to second-hand thoughts. The reality of Iraq had torn away the mantle of his misconceptions in a way he’d never imagined.
He let out a sigh, turned his head slowly side to side to ease the stiffness in his shoulders. Replenishing his drink, he checked the time and picked up the phone to the camp’s medical centre. Under the pretext of sending McDermott for a check-up on his knee, Kowolski had arranged for a psychiatrist to carry out the examination, see if he could subtly deduce the lieutenant’s mental state.
‘You had time to form an opinion on our boy?’
‘Ah, yes,’ the doctor said. ‘The good news or the bad?’
Kowolski took a slug of his drink. ‘Might as well let me have both barrels.’
‘Well, his knee’s fine providing he doesn’t over-exert himself. Mentally, I’d say he’s in something of a mess.’
‘I figured that, but how bad?’
Kowolski heard the doctor draw in breath. ‘Hard to say without a thorough examination of his mind. Could be paranoia, might even be paraphrenia.’
‘Para what?’
‘He admitted to having hallucinations. I asked him how he was sleeping, he muttered something about a baby – seemed to be tormented about it. Couldn’t press too much, of course. Mentioned God a couple of times.’
‘Yeah, our boy’s a Bible freak.’
‘You want me to see if we can take it further?’
Kowolski sighed. ‘No, doc. Our trip’s on a tight schedule. Maybe some other time.’
‘As long as you’re aware the engine might just pack up before your journey’s over.’
‘Right,’ Kowolski said, replacing the receiver. He blew out his cheeks, finished his drink and put his glass down with a thud.
Just what he needed – a kid who might go off the rails at any minute.
* * *
Alex was on a high. The orders for her work just kept rolling in. Sitting at her desk, she allowed herself a smile. Kowolski had promised her the exhibition would be successful and he was right. There was nothing like a burst of good publicity to ramp up the reputation. She flipped through her diary, entering her latest assignment; a week’s photo-shoot in Hawaii on a calendar for an international company based in New Y
ork. Her only downer, that Northwood had somehow wiped her emails. But she’d resigned herself to losing that particular battle and pushed it to the back of her mind.
It was Steve who had really set her heart alight. Two days and nights together put the seal on their relationship. Their parting was a bitter-sweet affair.
‘Wish we could roll the clock forward a few months so I’m out of there,’ Steve said at the airport, holding her tight.
‘Tell me, Mister Lewis,’ Alex said, pulling away lightly, her head to one side, ‘was it worth all that time, money and effort flying here when you could have been in Kuwait for a few days touring the galleries?’
He gave her an extra squeeze, kissed her firmly. ‘No contest, your honour,’ he laughed loudly, his face alight.
She glanced around her apartment, decided a spot of tidying up was needed. A stack of newspapers and magazines littered the sofa. She’d been avidly monitoring the McDermott coverage, his photograph adorning every front page. One picture was particularly pleasing; her photograph of the lieutenant with the little boy that the New York Times requested from her exhibition and used big. Alex cut that page out for her portfolio.
Her mobile bleeped, signalling an incoming message. Checking it, she gasped. A short note from Greg telling her he’d had enough and was returning to Australia. He enclosed a number for Farrah al-Tikriti, saying that she and the boys had moved to Jordan.
Alex sat down, cradling the phone and staring blankly at the text. For the last few days, Iraq had been blissfully far from her mind. A sudden stab of remorse flickered through her as she thought of the family without their beloved Aban. His death had saddened her beyond words and she couldn’t begin to imagine what it had done to his cherished wife and children. Now they had to find a new life for themselves in a foreign country.
She looked at her watch, let out a deep breath. It was early evening in Iraq, Jordan on a similar time difference. Should she call Farrah? What would she say? Words, any words, she knew would be inadequate. Eventually steeling herself, she dialled the number and waited, her heart pounding.
‘Hello, Farrah al-Tikriti.’ The voice was weak, quizzical.
‘Farrah, it’s me, Alex Stead in New York.’
‘Oh, Alex,’ Farrah said softly, despair all too evident. ‘You are so kind to call.’
‘Dear Farrah, I was so so sorry to hear… it’s the least I can do to speak to you. Greg tells me you are in Jordan.’
‘Yes, we came, we had to get out. They are killing each other now, just as Aban warned.’ The mention of her husband’s name started Farrah sobbing.
Alex gulped, the tears welling. ‘Is there anything I can do?’
‘No, we are safe here. I have arranged schooling for the boys.’ Farrah started crying full flow, her words soon spluttering into a mournful wail. ‘There were marks on the body, horrible red marks, deep bruises. He is at rest now but what they did to him…’
Alex wound up the conversation, totally disconcerted, an empty feeling inside that made her feel nauseous. She hoped she hadn’t sounded trite. But what could anyone say or do to make the poor woman feel any better? Taking a tissue from a drawer, she dabbed at her eyes. ‘The bastards,’ she spat, sinking into a chair. Richard Northwood and his group of thugs had contributed to Aban’s death without a doubt – just as much as if they had killed him, like Farrah claimed.
Her chin taut, she got up and walked wearily to the bathroom. She splashed cold water on her face. Looking in the mirror, Alex reaffirmed the vow she’d already made to herself: if there ever came an opportunity to strike back, then, by God, she would take it with both hands.
* * *
From his billet window close to the airfield, McDermott watched as the numbers of troops began to swell on the apron. Every couple of minutes, small groups of soldiers exited a process centre, its double doors opening automatically and flooding the tarmac with light from within the building. Further away, a C-5 Galaxy stood motionless, engines thrumming, the big beast stark against the night sky, its nosecone up so that it looked like a giant bird of prey that had come to grief.
With trembling hands, he stashed several more items into a bug-out bag, hastily acquired that afternoon from a store on the base’s mid-post mall. He secured the last item, a pack of glow sticks, and fastened the bag, content it resembled a fair attempt at a survival kit. On the airfield, an Abrams tank inched forward up the nosecone ramp and was soon swallowed into the aircraft’s belly.
McDermott took a deep breath and stared into nowhere. He just knew this was his moment. He’d been so patient, so trusting, waiting for God’s guidance. But, as the end of September had drawn almost to a close, his despair intensified and he’d felt his will wavering. As hard as he’d prayed, doubts still flickered, barbs of confusion tormented.
Then, at once, like a miracle, everything slotted into place; the Lord suddenly offered him the opportunity. In triumph, he could now set out on his journey of atonement.
Chatting to a younger fellow officer who’d witnessed McDermott’s presentation, he’d discovered the guy was bound for Iraq with his men that evening on their first tour. The C-5 he was looking at right now would be refuelling at the Rhein-Main airbase in Frankfurt, flying on to Basra and, finally, Baghdad.
‘I might just join you,’ McDermott said, suddenly flushed with the idea.
‘You serious?’
‘Why not? I have a piece of paper that gets me on to any flight, any time,’ he said, tapping his top pocket. ‘I have to get back sooner or later – special assignment,’ McDermott smiled. ‘But you don’t say anything to anyone, now.’
‘No, sir,’ the officer said, gesturing with a sweep of his hand to zip his mouth. ‘It’d be a real privilege to fly with you, though.’
McDermott picked up his bag, stopped at the door and glanced around the room. A surge of excitement rippled through him and he clicked his heels, laughing out loud.
Gently closing the door behind him, he marched purposefully down a sweep of corridors and into the processing centre. The room was empty. Through the glass doors he could see the troops, now in single file, about to board the aircraft. He stepped out on to the tarmac and tagged on to the end of the line.
Up ahead, the younger lieutenant was checking his men aboard from the top of the ramp. His face broke into a grin when he spotted McDermott.
‘Welcome aboard, Lieutenant,’ he said.
McDermott reached for his pocket. ‘You need my credentials?’
‘I think we all know who you are, sir. Stow your bag and take a seat.’
Within minutes, the C-5 lumbered out on to the runway. Moments later, it took its short take-off and they were airborne. McDermott felt as if he were floating, a curious sense of well-being pervaded his soul. He closed his eyes and saw a baby smiling at him.
Presently, he was joined by his new-found friend who sat in the next seat. McDermott studied him. Did he once look like this, full of the enthusiasm he now saw shining in the young man’s face? The eagerness, the fervour, the innocence?
‘Well, we’re all ready to go and kick ass out there,’ the man said, nodding to himself. ‘Yes, sir, we sure as hell are ready.’
McDermott looked the man in the eye, smiling serenely. ‘Just make sure you temper your wrath with mercy, my friend. ‘‘If the spirit of the ruler rises up against thee, leave not thy place; for yielding pacifieth great offences’’,’ McDermott said, blinking several times. He reached for his Bible. ‘Now, I have some reading to do,’ he said, brusquely.
The young officer gulped, pulled a face that held signs of disappointment. ‘Sure thing, Lieutenant,’ he muttered as he got up to return to his own seat. McDermott watched him slope off, arms hanging loosely at his side.
* * *
It was cooler now it was dark. A rare wind blew welcome gusts of air through the gap in the wall of the Basra city morgue. Abu Khamsin finished his cigarette and took one last gasp of the breeze, then lifted the mask to his face once more.
He could never quite get used to the smell of death, even though he was now considered an old hand. Working originally in Baghdad in the place they called ‘the slaughterhouse’, he had leapt at the chance of a transfer to Basra for more money. Baghdad without dear Aban and his family held nothing for him.
It was also better now it was dark; no pitiful, wailing relatives to confront, no witnessing the pain and terror in their eyes as they sought the remains of their loved ones.
In one room, corpses were now being stacked on top of each other to save space. One section had been casually divided for body bits; the major part of anyone’s remains stored in its appropriate place, bottom half or top.
It was a system that seemed to work. Earlier in the day, a family identified the lower body part of a young man from the patterned socks they’d bought him for his recent eighteenth birthday. Abu Khamsin had to guide them to the other pile of ‘top bits’, then let them rummage among the grisly mound. There, they found the boy’s arm, identifying it from the cheap wristwatch still attached. He felt so embarrassed by their gratitude as they left – carrying their haul away in a black trash bag for burial.
No longer did he want to hear from grieving brothers and mothers and fathers details of their loved one’s lives. Too personal. Too upsetting to hear of the young man due to get married and shot dead for overtaking an army convoy on his rush to the wedding. Too horrifying to learn that a mother and her three daughters had been crushed to death in their car by an Abrams tank that did not stop at a busy road junction.
No, it was much quieter now it was dark.
He brushed flecks of ash from his red-stained apron and walked back inside, glad he’d managed to buy a new pair of sturdy boots with thick-tread soles to stop him slipping on the blood-puddled floor.
There would be three trucks tonight, big Russian-made open-backed diesels that would be stacked high to trundle the unclaimed spirits on the arduous 200 mile journey north to Najaf, the sacred city. There, the bodies would be dumped, without ceremony, in a mass grave just outside the city.