by Richard Fox
“Well, I’ll be damned. He does leave his house.” Shelton stuck two fingers in his mouth and blew a sharp whistle, catching Kovalenko’s attention. Shelton waved the sheikh over.
“Sheikh Majid hasn’t been real friendly with us. The only time he’ll come see me is when we arrest one of his tribesmen. Then he’ll swear up and down that they’ve done nothing wrong, and that I should release them immediately,” Shelton said to Ritter.
Sheikh Majid rushed over, his sandals slapping against the asphalt in a half run. Majid ignored Ritter’s Arabic welcome and knelt over the body. He slapped his hands against his head twice, then lowered his head.
“Sheikh, can you—” Ritter’s hand shot out and touched Shelton’s armor. He brought his palms and fingers together and mouthed the word praying.
Majid stood up a few moments later, his hands balled against his chest.
“Sheikh, we found him in the canal. Who is he? Do you know who did this?” Ritter said in Arabic.
Majid looked Ritter up and down with a jaundiced eye, then said, “He is Zakaria, my cousin Tariq’s youngest son. He was missing for the last day. As for who, it was al-Qaeda.”
“What did he say about al-Qaeda?” Shelton asked.
“Just a second.” Ritter switched from English to Arabic. “Why would al-Qaeda kill him?” He hated having to translate and elicit information at the same time. Doing both made sure he did neither well.
“Because they are a bunch of worthless—” Majid stopped and flapped his hands against his thighs. The radical shift in body language told Ritter a lie was coming. “They said he stole a little money from al-Qaeda. Of course, his didn’t. We have nothing to do with al-Qaeda, but they still killed him. Can I take the body? We must bury him before sundown. That is Islamic law.”
“He wants the body,” Ritter said. Al-Qaeda wouldn’t risk a blood feud over money. The sheikh was hiding something.
“That’s not all he said,” Shelton replied.
“I’ll fill you in later,” Ritter said. “Sheikh, thank you for your help. You have our sympathies.”
Majid nodded slowly. “I need help. Can you send the other man over?”
“He needs the other guy to help,” Ritter said.
Shelton whistled again, waving both Abu Ahmet and Kovalenko over. Kovalenko pressed a handbill into Abu Ahmet’s hand as they approached. Ali translated their conversation from behind as they went.
“I’ve never seen this guy before,” Shelton said as Abu Ahmet neared. Channing crept up behind Shelton, the radio handset to his ear.
Ritter took a hard look at Abu Ahmet. The older Iraqi moved with a purpose but not with confidence, as if there was tension in the top of his shoulders. He did his best not to meet Kovalenko’s eyes and muttered only one-word answers to his questions. What was this guy afraid of? If al-Qaeda was on the warpath, why was this guy within arm’s distance of his sheikh? This was someone Ritter needed to speak with.
“We have to return to base. Now,” Shelton said to Ritter and Kovalenko.
“What? Why?” Ritter said.
“I’ll fill you in later.”
Chapter 17
The Humvee quaked as it ran through a pothole. Ritter swore the driver was aiming for every single bump, hump, and drop as they raced back to the patrol base. On Iraq’s few highways, speed was armor. Out here in the countryside, haste was a sure way to miss the pressure plate or crush the wire attached to the IED waiting to kill you.
“Sir, you think we accomplished anything today?” Kovalenko said over his shoulder.
“We managed to speak with the locals without anyone getting killed or detained. From what Captain Shelton tells me, that’s a great success. We can build off—”
The Humvee hit something so hard that it bumped Ritter an inch off his seat. He would have hit the ceiling had he not been buckled in. “We can build off that and eventually get them to give up Samir,” he said.
Kovalenko’s face froze when he heard Samir’s name.
“Iraqi tribal culture will shield Samir for a while, but when the sheikh and the other elders—”
Ritter saw Kovalenko suck in his lower lip and nibble it. This lieutenant would have made a terrible poker player. “Lieutenant, is there something I should know?”
“Well, while you and the captain were talking to the sheikh, I chatted up that other guy, Abu Ahmet. I just asked him about Samir and showed him the wanted poster.” Kovalenko shrank in his seat as Ritter listened.
“You ‘just asked him’?” Ritter said.
“Yeah, he said Samir’s dead. Said al-Qaeda accused him of working with the Americans while he was in jail, and they killed him. Abu Ahmet showed me a photo on his cell phone of Samir wrapped in a sheet, deader than shit and ready to be buried.”
Ritter kept his expression neutral as he listened to Kovalenko’s sheepish explanation. “You…just asked him.”
“Did I screw up?”
“No, Lieutenant, you did good,” Ritter said. “I had an overly complex and lengthy plan that would have eaten up time we don’t have. So much for that lead.”
“You know, sir, that explanation’s bullshit,” Greely shouted from the turret.
“Why’s that?” Ritter asked.
“If al-Qaeda killed Samir for helping us out way back when, why’d they use Samir to make an IED for the ambush?”
“Good point, Greely,” Ritter said. “What do you think, Lieutenant?” Ritter said to Kovalenko. Ritter had a strong suspicion why Abu Ahmet might have lied to them but decided to test out the young lieutenant’s thought process.
Kovalenko chewed over his answer, then said, “Maybe al-Qaeda didn’t kill Samir, and maybe Abu Ahmet doesn’t want us to know who did.”
“Information is power, Lieutenant. Guard it well,” Ritter said. Kovalenko somewhat impressed him. He’d identified the deception but didn’t delve any further. Ritter suspected Abu Ahmet had ponied up the photos of a dead Samir to stop the Americans from searching for him. What would they find if they kept digging around Samir’s recent actions? Ritter decided that would have to wait. Mukhtar was the prize, and he knew where the missing Soldiers were.
“Sure thing, sir. But does it matter? Samir’s dead. He’s no good to us anymore,” Kovalenko said.
“Some dead men are more useful than the living,” Ritter said.
The Humvee slowed as the patrol base came into view ahead of them.
Kovalenko heaved the Humvee’s door open after they pulled to a stop next to the clearing barrel, a sand-filled oil drum embedded into the ground at a forty-five-degree angle. As the senior man in his vehicle, it was his responsibility to ensure every weapon was unloaded following their mission. Captain Shelton’s policy was that there was no such thing as an accidental discharge of a weapon; there were only negligent discharges. Kovalenko took his place next to the barrel and waited for Greely to unload his M2 heavy machine gun.
“Dragon One-Six!” Kovalenko heard Captain Shelton yell his call sign from the other side of the parking lot. Kovalenko couldn’t see Shelton or much of anything else beyond the tall MRAPs between him and the headquarters building. He took a step toward Shelton, then caught himself. His weapon was still loaded.
“Give it to me. I’ll do the honors,” Ritter said as he held out a hand. Kovalenko unslung his rifle and handed it to Ritter. He nodded his thanks as he turned and ran toward the headquarters building. His footfalls elicited squeals from the gravel carpet spread across the motor pool.
He squeezed between two MRAPs and stopped. Captain Shelton and Colonel Townsend stood on either side of the company guidon, the entire company in a loose circle around them.
“There he is. Make a hole!” Shelton yelled. The circle split wide enough for Kovalenko to enter. Kovalenko jogged toward his commanding officers, his right arm twitching to salute. Did the field no-salute policy apply to the brigade commander?
He stopped a yard from his commanders and stood at attention. “First Lieutenant Kovalenk
o reports as ordered, sir.”
“At ease, Lieutenant,” Townsend said as he grabbed Kovalenko’s elbow and maneuvered him aside the guidon. “Dragon Company!” Townsend thundered.
“Hoah!” came the company’s response.
“Men, it brings me great pleasure to be here with you today. Today we award Lieutenant Kovalenko the Combat Infantryman’s Badge. When men in my command earn the CIB for killing the enemy, damn sure I will be there to give it to them.” Kovalenko tuned out as Townsend bloviated on the merits of the Combat Infantryman’s Badge and on how no one in the infantry could call himself a man without this badge.
The colonel continued on with the a story of how the badge had come to be following the Second World War and how Townsend had earned his badge during the Gulf War.
Christ, how this guy can talk, Kovalenko thought.
Kovalenko saw Ritter angling a glance from the outer ring of Soldiers, his stony face an asterisk in the sea of prideful countenances. A lieutenant colonel broke away from the crowd, a faux pas while the brigade commander was speaking, and poked Ritter on the shoulder. The lieutenant colonel—Reynolds, by Kovalenko’s memory—led Ritter away toward the operations center.
What’s that all about? Kovalenko thought.
“…And that is why the Combat Infantryman’s Badge is the single-greatest award an infantryman can have. You have met the enemy and emerged victorious. Lieutenant Kovalenko met the enemy and became a killer. Publish the order!” Townsend squared off against Kovalenko as someone handed him a CIB pin. The assembled Soldiers snapped to attention as Park read from a certificate.
Townsend pressed the exposed pins into Kovalenko’s uniform but left them loose against his chest. He leaned forward and whispered, “You’re bloodied now. Good job, killer.”
Killer. The word wrapped itself around Kovalenko’s mind.
Park finished reading as a vicious grin spread across Townsend’s face. Townsend pulled his arm back, then slammed his palm into Kovalenko’s badge. The blow impaled twin spikes into Kovalenko’s chest, but he didn’t flinch.
Killer. Kovalenko imagined the letters on his name tape reshaping themselves to match his new identity.
Townsend slipped a unit coin into his hand, then clapped his hands. Dragon Company howled their approval and joined the applause.
Captain Shelton and the rest of the company’s leadership shook Kovalenko’s hand and murmured their congratulations. He felt blood seeping from the twin spikes in his chest, but the pain didn’t bother him. The pain was nothing. His new label terrified him.
Killer. The inescapable label he could never renounce.
Killer. The label bit into his soul and injected a slow poison.
Killer.
Lieutenant Colonel Reynolds stormed into the company operations center, Ritter a step behind him. Reynolds pointed a finger at the Soldier manning the radios. “You!” He jabbed his thumb over his shoulder toward the door. The Soldier, needing no further explanation, scrambled to his feet and left, closing the door behind him.
Reynolds spun around and looked Ritter up and down. “You don’t look like hot shit.” His nostrils flared as he leaned in and took an exaggerated sniff. “Don’t smell like hot shit.”
“Sir, I’m not sure what this is about but—”
“Why were Colonel Townsend and Hibou, that worm of an intelligence officer, called up to division headquarters without me? Why was the first thing they did when they got back was to send you to this patrol base? Why won’t Townsend tell me why you’re here, and why does Hibou nearly piss himself when I ask him about you?” Reynolds jammed his fists onto his waist as he spoke. His pose struck Ritter as more appropriate for a spoiled child demanding to know why ice cream wouldn’t be served for breakfast.
Ritter knew why Reynolds wasn’t privy to Ritter’s mission. He doubted Townsend and Hibou had been told the whole truth. Reynolds was an egotistical control freak who would meddle with the delicate nature of what Ritter was trying to accomplish—and whatever scheme Shannon was running.
A dozen smart-ass remarks danced on the tip of Ritter’s tongue. He held back; any hint of contempt would tell Reynolds he was on to something. If Reynolds blabbered his assumptions to anyone who’d listen, not that anyone at the headquarters had much choice but to listen, rumors would spread. Shannon and the rest of her cohorts from the Farm had taught him that the best intelligence cover is a low profile and plausible deniability.
“Sir, I’m just here to help. My Arabic lends itself well to working with the locals and—”
“Shut up! You listen to me.” Reynolds poked a finger into Ritter’s chest. “I don’t care what kind of ‘great skills’ you think you have, but if any secret squirrel nonsense gets in the way of my operations, you will spend the rest of this deployment on shit-burning detail. You get me?”
Ritter ran through a half dozen ways he could rip Reynolds’s finger off his hand and shove it down his throat. That can come later, he thought.
“I get you, sir.”
Reynolds stuck his middle finger in Ritter’s face. “Fuck up this much. Fuck up once. That’s all I need.”
Reynolds turned away and slammed the door as he left. The Soldier on duty stood in the hallway, his eyes wide in shock. Ritter waited a moment until he was sure Reynolds had left the building.
“Did you hear any of that?” he asked.
“Any of what, sir? What did that asshole want?” the Soldier replied.
“Damned if I know.”
Porter raced into the company’s Internet café, which was uncharacteristically empty. The entire company had been called in for Kovalenko’s pinning ceremony; no one would hide out if the brigade commander was on the base. The room, the farm’s former feed storage area, had two computer stations and a single phone. Porter, still wearing his armor and helmet, pulled a chair out from one of the computer stations and sat down.
He opened a web browser and shrugged off his armor as he waited. The café’s Internet was slow, but it was sure. A pair of Soldiers jogged into the room and engaged in a brief match of musical chairs to claim the other seat. The loser grumbled and sat against the wall.
So much for privacy, Porter thought. His e-mail account opened, and he scanned the unread messages. Porter hadn’t checked his e-mail since the attack that took O’Neal and Brown; there was some catching up to do. There were half a dozen e-mails from his mother; the newer messages showed higher levels of panic and grammar mistakes in the titles than the older messages. A few messages from friends and spam—that was all. Nothing from Carlie, his wife, who hadn’t written to him since the first month of the deployment.
Despair pressed onto Porter, and he sank into his seat. She had to know about the attack; it was all over the news. Captain Shelton swore that the family-readiness group back home had the latest news; Carlie should know. Didn’t she care enough to send a “Hey, you OK?” message?
His bank account was a mess of red numbers. Why was there a car loan on his account? All his accounts were overdrawn, and his two credit cards maxed out. Carlie cared enough to pull out any and all available cash every payday. Porter crossed his arms and rested his chin against his chest. Maybe Sergeant Young was right. Maybe he should change his bank accounts and survivor benefits. That would get Carlie’s attention.
“Hey, you online or taking a nap?” the waiting Soldier asked.
Porter flipped the bird over his shoulder and leaned over the keyboard. He sent an e-mail to his mother, assuring her he was fine.
To his wife, he wrote,
Hey, sweetheart, how you doing? The company had a bad day, and we lost some good guys. Two of the guys are still missing, but we’re looking for them. I’m fine. Still a bullet and bomb repellent!
Are you OK? I haven’t heard from you in a long time. I miss you and will see you soon. Only two more weeks until I can come home on leave. You’re the only thing holding me together out here. I know we didn’t have much time together before I left, but we’l
l make it up when this deployment is over. Please tell me you’re OK. Please tell me we’re OK.
Love,
—Honey Bear
He sent the e-mail and logged off. He wiped a tear from his cheek before anyone else could see it and left the room.
Chapter 18
The Tunisian was ready for his suicide mission. Mukhtar’s imam had spent the morning with the Tunisian, directing him through ritual prayers, shaving his entire body below the neck, and wearing the pure white martyr’s shawl. Naturally, the whole process was caught on camera for future propaganda. Al-Qaeda’s media teams would edit the raw video with Islamic music and multiple angles of the blast from the Tunisian’s final act. The video would go online to generate donations from wealthy Arabs and inspire more suicide bombers to join the cause.
Mukhtar gave specific instructions that the filmmakers not record the imam giving the Tunisian a shot of tranquilizers or plying the young man with alcohol. Sober suicide bombers had a nasty habit of choosing to live as they approached their targets.
The cargo truck’s frame sagged from the tons of ammonium nitrate fertilizer mixed with diesel. Loops of det cord, plastic explosive in tube form running through the bags of homemade explosive, would blow the truck into vapor. The Tunisian’s target, an Iraqi police station in nearby Ramadi, would cease to exist less than an hour from now. Mukhtar couldn’t wait for the comparisons to the Oklahoma City bombing. This weapon was just as powerful, and its blast would propel Mukhtar into the next rung of al-Qaeda’s hierarchy and blow a building full of traitors to hell.
Mukhtar’s men burst into cheers as the Tunisian left the prayer room, flanked by the imam and Hamsa, each helping the stoned bomber make his way to the truck. The cameraman kept pace with the Tunisian and signaled to two men waiting by the truck’s cab. The two men, who’d traveled with the Tunisian from Africa into Iraq, hugged the bomber and kissed his cheeks. The bomber’s eyes swam in the cocktail of drugs that kept his mind and body depressed and too lethargic for self-preservation.