by Richard Fox
Abu Ahmet leaned against the straw brick wall and tin roof of a ramshackle mechanic’s shop. A creeping stain of spilled oil haloed the building. Abu Ahmet felt the cut-down AK-47 hidden under his calf-length dishdasha for the umpteenth time. What was taking that little brat so long?
The Qarghuli tribal council had approved the vendetta against Hamsa with little debate and a unanimous decision. Hamsa’s death would restore Abu Ahmet’s honor and prevent his daughter’s honor killing. Some—Abdullah most of all—had quietly lobbied against the vendetta. There was too much to lose by angering al-Qaeda. Abu Ahmet was enraged when he heard this, but Theeb and Khalil wrestled him to the floor and held him down until his anger passed. He’d have his revenge for his daughter, Safaa.
The car full of al-Qaeda men had arrived at the restaurant half an hour ago. The falafel chef, his second cousin by marriage, sent him a text that Hamsa was there. Abu Ahmet snuck into the town with the compact AK-47 and a spare magazine. They had cost him the last of his cash, but killing Hamsa would be worth every dinar.
A boy, not past ten years old, raced around the corner. “Abu Ahmet, they’re leaving!” he said.
“Go tell the Lebanese man you saw someone smoking and point to this building,” Abu Ahmet said.
The boy held out a grubby hand. Abu Ahmet plucked a few hundred dinars from his breast pocket and handed them to him. The boy flashed a toothy grin and ran back the way he had come.
Abu Ahmet lit a cigarette and exhaled the smoke beyond the wall’s edge. He pulled the AK-47 from beneath his robe and clicked the safety off. He inhaled faster and deeper in excitement; the rapid nicotine intake made his blood hum in his veins. This would feel so good.
He heard someone running toward him and raised the rifle to his shoulder. He stroked the trigger with his forefinger then applied the slightest bit of pressure…Any second now.
A man raced around the corner and halted when he looked down the business end of Abu Ahmet’s AK-47. It wasn’t Hamsa as Abu Ahmet had hoped and planned; it was Charba. Abu Ahmet shot him anyway. The bullet pierced his skull over the right eye and burst out the back of his skull. A new cowlick of hair marked the exit wound. Charba crumpled to the ground without a sound.
Abu Ahmet spat the cigarette onto the body and switched his weapon to full auto. He emptied the rest of the magazine into Charba. The bullets shook the body like a grand mal seizure. Chunks of flesh ripped away as bullets ricocheted off bone or passed through, leaving bloody craters in their wake.
The magazine emptied in seconds. The new silence was pregnant with panic as the villagers gawked at the murder. Abu Ahmet reloaded his weapon and stepped over the corpse. The other two al-Qaeda men stood behind the open doors of their car; one had a cell phone to his ear; the other fumbled with an MP5. Abu Ahmet sent a burst through the car door, the thin steel no match for 7.62mm bullets. He killed the man with the MP5 instantly.
The man with the cell phone turned to run. He managed three steps before Abu Ahmet stitched bullets up his spine. Abu Ahmet calmly walked to the car and tossed the MP5 onto the passenger seat. Seeing keys still in the ignition, Abu Ahmet slipped behind the driver’s seat and drove away. He nodded to the falafel proprietor, who stood slack-jawed in the doorway.
He picked up a pale Theeb at the edge of town.
“Allah preserve us! You were only supposed to kill Hamsa!” Theeb cried, his voice reedy with panic.
Abu Ahmet shrugged. “Like my new car?”
Patrol Base Dragon was American skin grafted onto Iraqi bones. Before the war, the country house had been owned by a wealthy Sunni family who farmed the nearby fields but earned most of their money smuggling drugs and alcohol from Syria into Baghdad. The United States Army decided to occupy the building by force during a push to stop the flow of car bombs and weapons in Baghdad; they agreed to compensate the Sunni family most handsomely. Part of the agreement was that any improvements the army made to the home were to be left behind if and/or when the Army no longer occupied the building.
No one was sure whether the owners wanted to keep the surrounding concrete block barriers, but there were plenty of improvements. Electrical wiring, supplied by the Army Corps of Engineers and guaranteed not to burn out after a week’s use like the locally purchased wire, ran from building to building, infiltrating the walls through drilled-out mouse holes. Track lighting ran along the exterior but was never turned on, denying the local insurgent mortar teams an easy target. A burn pit, dug by a backhoe, was far enough away from the living areas to avoid sending the smell of burning food and plastic wafting through the entire camp no more than once a day. A helicopter landing zone, made of interlinked steel plates, was sectioned off from the rest of the base with an interior T-wall barrier, which was meant to keep the blown dust from a helicopter landing confined to the landing zone.
As for the homes inside the patrol base, they had been built with every corner cut. The feeble concrete sidewalks crumbled with every application of water. Gaps in the doorframes and window frames grew as the house settled farther into the unstable soil. Dragon Soldiers sprayed quick-hardening foam into the cracks to keep the dust and heat out and the precious air conditioning in. The foam made the building look like it was festering from a thousand wounds. Masonry work was shoddy and uneven, and sloppy mortar ran between bricks—anathema to anyone who took pride in work done by hand.
Speculation was rampant as to why the home was so large yet so poorly built. Theories ranged from the owner overbilling and underbuilding the construction as some sort of money-laundering scheme, to the home being built in a hurry to house a second or third wife, who had a fit of jealousy that one of the other wives had a bigger place to live. One of the interpreters offered up the best hypothesis; the owner’s relatives, who may or may not have been civil engineers, had built the home to keep the funds in the tribe. Complaints about the workmanship had been impossible; such talk might lead to bad blood.
The ad hoc hygiene area was a row of sinks and mirrors perched atop a plywood stand. One of the company’s Soldiers was a trained carpenter, a skill set the company exploited without qualm. Within months, the patrol base had new shower facilities, visitors’ quarters, toilets, and the hygiene area. The showers burned down after a direct hit from a mortar but were rebuilt with a protective layer of sandbags.
There was no way to heat water for anything but cooking. Thankfully, the Iraqi weather provided enough heat for a lukewarm shower on most days.
Nesbitt brushed his teeth at the hygiene station, wearing nothing but a towel around his waist. Channing sat beside him, liberally applying powder to his abused feet. Nesbitt glanced at Channing and then increased the tempo of his brushing with such fury that his towel fell off. Channing looked at the fallen towel, then up at Nesbitt’s quivering backside.
“God fucking damn it, Nesbitt!” Channing turned away in disgust as Nesbitt laughed through a mouthful of toothpaste.
“Convoy coming in!” yelled the Soldier in the driver well of the antiquated M113 blocking the only entrance to the patrol base. The M113’s engine roared to life, then pulled ahead. Nesbitt cursed and retrieved his towel before disappearing behind the hygiene station.
Four gun-truck Humvees and two cargo Humvees drove in and scattered to their assigned parking spots.
“He get you again?” Kilo said as he and Porter approached.
“I swear I’ve seen that asshole’s asshole more times than I’ve seen his mamma’s tits!” Furious laughter from Nesbitt answered Channing’s insult.
Kilo stepped onto the station and filled an aluminum canteen cup with water. He watched as Captain Ritter helped unload mail sacks and laundry bags.
“It’s happening,” Kilo said.
“What is? Who’s that captain?” Channing asked.
“Captain Shelton’s getting relieved, and that’s our new CO,” Kilo said. Rumors had circulated during the weeks since the kidnapping. A visit from the inspector general’s office a few days ago had convinced most
of the company that Captain Shelton would pass the guidon of command to one of the many captains trapped in the purgatory of battalion staff.
“I don’t think so. That’s an intel guy,” Porter said as he lathered his face with shaving cream. They watched as Ritter pulled a duffel bag from the cargo Humvee and dropped it next to a black trunk.
“Looks like he’s here to stay,” Channing said.
“That goddamn leg doesn’t even have a ranger tab. How the hell can he command this company?” Nesbitt, now wearing pants, spat a wad of chewing tobacco on the ground.
“That ‘goddamn leg’ has more kills than you do,” Porter said as he ran a disposable razor down his cheek.
“How do you know, smart guy?” Nesbitt said.
“That’s the guy Captain Shelton had to pull kicking and screaming from that blown-up Humvee back at the power plant. Turns out he, Sergeant First Class Young, and the CO were in the same company in their last tour. Young said the guy zapped fifteen Jaish al-Mahdi asswipes in Najaf back in two thousand four.” Porter knocked the shaving cream from the razor into the stainless steel basin.
“So what’s he doing out here?” Nesbitt asked, cowed by the new information.
“Why don’t you go ask him?” Kilo said.
“I’m just a specialist. Let the NCOs deal with the officers,” Nesbitt said.
Ritter hefted his full rucksack onto his back and grabbed his duffel bag by the two short handles. He packed everything he’d brought to, and accumulated in, Iraq. There was no time limit on his assignment with Dragon Company, and it was best not to leave anything behind. He tottered a few steps before Sergeant Young, trailed by a sheepish Soldier, flagged him down.
“Sir! Damn good to see you again.” Young clasped Ritter on the shoulder. Ritter flopped his gear back to the ground so he could shake Young’s hand.
“Shelton let you keep the moustache. I’m impressed,” Ritter said.
“Only so long as we’re in the field. Saddam couldn’t grow something this masculine if he tried. It helps keep the locals in line,” Young added with a wink.
“I hear you’re the acting first sergeant,” Ritter said.
“That’s right. As such, I have a few rules to go over with you concerning the good order and discipline of this patrol base. It is a matter of policy that I share this with you. I know you’re no idiot, but some visitors—all of them from the brigade staff, I might add—cannot grasp the intuitive.
“Sir, there are two things we need to get straight so that our relationship will be tip-top. First”—he pointed to several wooden stalls—“those are the shitters. No plumbing out here for that, so we burn our shit.” He pointed to several tubes sticking from the ground; water bottles with the bases cut off were taped to the ends of the tubes. “Those are the pissers. Don’t shit in the pisser and don’t piss in the shitter. Bonne?”
“I can manage that,” Ritter said.
“Now, as you may have noticed, we don’t have the amenities of Camp Victory. Would you humor me and describe a field shower?” Young asked.
“You get in the shower, turn the water on until you’re wet, then turn the water off. Soap up, then turn the water back on to rinse off,” Ritter answered.
“Thank you, sir. Field showers are all we can manage out here. We get a few shower queens, who think this place is the damn Sheraton, and we’re all using baby wipes for showers,” Young said.
“I have a room for you. Do follow me, and I’ll show it to you.” Young pointed beyond the main building of the patrol base.
Ritter reached for his bag. “No, no, no, sir. Private Thomas will take all your gear for you. Private Thomas here pissed hot for marijuana two days before we deployed to this festering shit of a country, and he will perform every shit detail I can think of until this deployment ends.” Private Thomas nodded furiously and picked up Ritter’s rucksack and duffel bag.
They walked past the main building as Young gave the nickel tour, identifying the mess hall, helicopter landing zone, and an outdoor gym next to a fighting pit. As small as the base was, pointing out the landmarks was as unnecessary as providing a detailed map of an ant farm.
Young stopped next to a seashell-shaped gouge in the perimeter T-wall. “Sir, this is a present from Abu Five Rounds. Abu Five Rounds is the local mortar man, and he visits us every week or so. We call him Abu Five Rounds because he always launches five mortar rounds, in case you didn’t figure that out.” There were a dozen mortar tail fins hanging from the gutter of the main house, like ornaments on Death’s Christmas tree. Young pointed out the bomb shelters, upside-down, U-shaped concrete blocks dotting the base, all covered in a layer of sandbags.
“This one? This is the one that hit First Sergeant Dickson. A piece of shrapnel hit him in the belly. He’d be dead if it weren’t for his muffin top. As is, he’s still recovering at the big hospital in Germany.” Young shook his head and led on.
“What are we doing about the guy launching the mortars?” Ritter asked.
“Hell, we got a ten-thousand-dollar bounty on him. That’s the most money we can offer for a target, but the Iraqis won’t bite. You know those goat herders won’t get out of bed in the morning for anything less than twenty large,” Young said.
“Counterfire from our mortar section? Ambush on his launch sites?”
“Sir, you keep saying ‘our.’ Do you think you’re here for the long haul?”
“I’m here until we find Brown and O’Neal,” Ritter said.
“Well, glad to have you. Nothing personal, but I hope you git quick.” Young led them toward a smaller house; the cracks in the tan plaster skin extended from the base to just shy of the roof like winter branches, revealing the poured concrete beneath. “We can’t shoot back before he can un-ass his firing point. It takes too long to make sure there aren’t any helicopters or drones in the way of our mortar rounds. He uses five or six different firing points. We’ve never had the manpower to watch more than one. Plus, both times we tried to catch him in the act, we were the ones ambushed on the way home.”
Young stopped next to a metal door and gave it a strong shove; metal screeched as the door barely budged. Young cursed and shoved again; the door sprang open. “Bit of rust on the frame. Thomas!” The junior Soldier stiffened at the sound of his name. “I want this door smoother than a stripper’s ass by morning.”
The room had once been a utility room. The smell of spilled oil forever lingered in the air. A gray electrical box dominated a wall. It emitted an authoritative buzz as Ritter entered as if to tell him what was in charge of the room. A wooden bunk bed—sans mattress—a decrepit desk, and a steel folding chair were the only furniture.
“This is prime real estate, Sergeant Young. I hope I didn’t piss anyone off by kicking them out,” Ritter said.
“No, sir. This was Lieutenant Oberth’s room,” Young said.
“I’ll thank him for moving,” Ritter said.
“No sir, defan Oberth. He gone.”
Ritter remembered enough of Young’s Cajun French to recognize the word for “sainted.” Lieutenant Oberth was dead.
Ritter kept quiet as he stepped into the room. At least he wasn’t superstitious.
Someone rapped on the metal door. “Sir, are you Captain Ritter?”
Ritter turned and found a Soldier, a sunburned man in his midtwenties standing in the doorway and holding a cardboard box and a white envelope.
“That’s me.”
“You’ve got mail, which has got to be a friggin’ miracle and a record. Fobbits normally take their sweet time redirecting the mail when someone moves units.” He handed over the post. “I’m Sergeant Greely. Nice to meet you.”
Ritter traded greetings and looked at his mail; the package was from his father. The letter bore no postmarks; Cindy Davis's name was on the return address. She must have snuck this letter into the Dragon’s mailbags, he thought.
“Thank you, gentlemen. I’ll get settled in,” Ritter said.
“Come by
the mess hall in a bit. We’ve got hot dogs and rice for dinner,” Young said.
Ritter promised to meet with him and wrestled the door shut. He flicked on a pair of light bulbs and opened the package. His father had sent him two dozen packs of cherry sour candy, a favorite of his since childhood; batteries; and brand-new tan undershirts. Ritter’s brow furrowed at the undershirts, which were a brand sold only on military posts. How did his father get his hands on these?
He placed the contents to the side of the box and ran his fingers into the cardboard folds of the box, hoping to find a note that might have been lodged into the box. Nothing.
He and his father had barely spoken since Ritter broke the news about his sudden posting to Iraq. His father had given some cryptic remarks about working a new contract in Turkey and had wished him a boring and safe tour. Ritter opened a pack of cherry sours and made a mental note to send an e-mail when time allowed.
Cindy had sent him a card, which she could only have bought at the small post exchange on Victory. The cover bore a cupcake with a burning candle and the words “Happy Birthday!” The card confused Ritter more than the lack of a card in his father’s package. His birthday wasn’t for another six months.
He opened the card, and a photograph slid into his fingers. In the photo he and Davis stood alongside a tall man with a face that had been broken too many times. The USO had brought a former professional wrestler to visit the brigade headquarters a few days after Ritter arrived. Ritter and Davis's hands were touching as they mimicked the wrestler’s signature move. Ritter could remember only that the name of the move was something about diamonds. It was the first day he and Davis had met, and they’d hit it off immediately after that.
Standing on the other side of the wrestler were Joe and Jennifer Mattingly; their pose matched Ritter and Davis's perfectly.
Davis's handwriting read, “Eric, don’t laugh at me! The PX has a limited selection of cards, and it was either the cupcakes or Merry Christmas to a mother-in-law. The greeting card industry needs to start a ‘Stay Safe in Iraq’ line. They would make literally hundreds of dollars at the Victory PX. That’s what I wanted to tell you. Stay safe out there.”