by Ted Russ
“Where did you get the van?”
“Sam, can we talk?” asked Zack, gesturing at the vehicle.
“Sure.” I looked at Weber. “I’m going to talk to these guys for a few minutes.” He nodded unenthusiastically.
Zack, Turtle, and I walked over to the van, twenty meters and just out of earshot from Weber and the gate guard.
“What is it?” I asked.
“We need your help,” said Zack. “The bastards got the Guru.”
“Who got the Guru?”
“ISIS.”
“What? I’m confused.”
“Do you even know what the Guru has been up to for the past few years?”
“Vaguely. Charity work, right?”
“Sort of. He’s got a group that works with the Iraqis to help them rebuild their country, schools and infrastructure kind of stuff. Not a big organization officially, but in addition to a dozen employees, he’s got about a hundred Iraqis pitching in, Sunni, Shia, Kurd. All of them just following him around the country helping with projects.”
“Sounds like the Guru.”
“They’ve been working in the north and in the Kurdish-controlled zone.”
“So?”
“ISIS captured him about twenty-four hours ago.”
“Shit.” I stared at the ground, thinking about the last time I’d seen the Guru. We’d run into each other about five years ago in a mess hall in Mosul. He had looked tired. I remembered thinking it was odd that he wasn’t excited at all for his colonel’s board. Everyone had said he was a shoo-in for the command list, and that he would definitely get a brigade. This was all the more impressive because the Guru had become well known for his searing, iconoclastic assessments of U.S. strategy and foreign policy in multiple professional journals. He had been published in Foreign Affairs twice.
But he was fried. He’d had seven tours in Iraq and Afghanistan at that point. I hadn’t heard the details on his charity outfit, but it sounded true to form.
“Ordinarily,” Zack said, “it would be a death sentence. But he got lucky. The guys that got him seem to be more bandit types than ISIS devotees, and they’re in a chaotic region. We’re not sure if Baghdadi even knows they have him yet. We’ve got a window, Sam. But it’s a small one.”
“A window to what?”
“To go get him,” said Turtle.
I looked at Zack. He looked back at me, motionless, and then nodded.
“You guys are crazy.”
“We’re dead serious, Sam,” Turtle said.
“Don’t you think they’re planning an op to get him back as we speak?”
“Who would ‘they’ be, Sam?” asked Zack.
“Well, you know. SOCOM. CIA. Somebody.”
“Aren’t you SOCOM? You getting ready for a rescue mission tonight?”
He had a point. I hadn’t even heard about a recently captured American. Much less been involved in any planning to get him back. “Maybe there are other assets in-theater?”
“I’ve got pretty decent access, Sam. Trust me, nothing is being cued up.”
“Yeah. Think about it,” said Turtle, noticing my confused look.
“How the hell do you guys know all this?”
Zack smiled. “I’ll tell you later.”
“You’ll tell me now.”
“Not until you’re on the team.”
“Come on, Sam!” Turtle said. “You’ve got to help. It’s the Guru, for Christ’s sake. You of all people—”
“Will you shut up for a second, Turtle? Let me think.”
“We don’t have time for this!” Turtle yelled. His muscular body tensed, and he took a step forward.
“Is everything okay, sir?” Sergeant Weber stepped forward, his M4 hanging in front.
“Yes, Weber. Thanks. Everything is fine.”
Sergeant Weber stood motionless, looking at Turtle. When soldiers have lived in an insurgent war zone as long as the group of us had, they develop a sense for threat ID. Turn the corner and see six men approaching, an instant evaluation occurs. It’s not conscious, but in half a step the brain has prioritized each individual from friendly to threat, closest to farthest, easy to deadly, and it calls forward three or four sequential techniques to deal with them. Weber’s brain was doing that now. The funny thing was that he had it wrong. He was focused on Turtle. Zack was deadlier.
Zack smiled and waved at Weber. “We’re a lot nicer than we look, Sergeant. Besides, we’ve known Lieutenant Colonel Avery here for, what, Sam? Twenty-seven years?”
“Twenty-eight, I think.”
“Ouch.”
I gave Weber a subtle okay sign, and he moved back reluctantly.
“They’re not going to try to get him back, Sam. They are trying to keep everything quiet and make it seem like things are not so shitty. If they acknowledge that another American was captured at all, it will cast everything in a new and shittier light, especially after we lost Ramadi.”
“I can’t believe they would just leave him.”
“Ever heard of Benghazi?” said Turtle sadly.
My head was spinning. I turned and looked back through the gate, across the airfield, at the helicopters on the far ramp. The two Chinooks pointed eastward, their massive rotor blades drooping low at rest.
“Let’s say for the moment I’m in. What are you proposing we do, anyway?”
“Simple. We know where he’s being held. I need you to fly me and Turtle, with his guys, up there with a vehicle, so we can grab him. Then we need a ride back. That’s all.”
“Oh. Is that all?”
“Long as we hit them tonight.”
“So you want me to steal a Chinook and fly you on an unauthorized mission tonight to try to get the Guru back?”
“Borrow a Chinook, not steal,” said Turtle, smiling.
I shook my head, trying to clear it.
“Don’t you have a contract bird and crew?”
“No. All I’ve got access to is two Little Birds, and one of them is down for maintenance. And you know they don’t have the range or payload. Sorry, Sam, but you’re the best heavy-assault asset in-country. Besides, we thought you would care the most.”
“Zack, if you do this, you’re giving up squadron commander. You know that, right? You’ll probably go to jail.”
“I’m aware of that,” Zack said slowly. “Look at us, Sam. For the past fourteen years we’ve lost friends, limbs, wives, our way … all of it for what? Afghanistan is still a shit show. Iraq is coming apart again after we just about had it fixed. For nothing! We’re going to be stuck here for another fifty years, net oil exporter or not. We’ll keep sending unit after unit after soldier after soldier forever, and I’m not saying that we shouldn’t. I’m saying all that matters to the three of us right now is that our friend is out there. They’ve got him. He’s dead in twenty-four hours. And not just shot dead. And for whatever reason, in all of this chaos, a couple of his best friends are in a position to do something about it.”
It was classic Zack. He had boiled a complex, decades-old geopolitical quagmire and a personal moral dilemma down to a simple overriding question of duty to a friend.
“I don’t know. I haven’t flown a hell of a lot in the past few years. I’m a staff weenie now, Zack. I might kill us all.”
“I doubt that, Sam. I remember you being a pretty good stick. Besides, I don’t really have any other choices over here.”
“You know I can’t fly a Chinook alone, right? I’m going to have to convince some other dumbasses to go with us.”
“I have confidence in your powers of persuasion. And, again, you’re all I’ve got.”
Turtle made a show of looking at his watch. Zack fixed him with a stare and pointed at their vehicle. Turtle objected silently, but Zack waved him off.
“It’s good to see you, Sam, sincerely,” Turtle said. He stepped over and shook my hand.
“You too, Turtle.” His face was roiling, but he did not speak. He pulled me in for a quick hug, patting me twic
e on the back. He was as strong as ever. Turtle then walked around to the driver’s side of the van, hopped in, and cranked the engine.
Zack watched Turtle until he had closed the van door. Then he stepped closer and put his hand on my shoulder. “Sam, I’ve always respected how you deal with things. Strategic. Thoughtful. But I don’t have time to run down all the scenarios with you right now. If you’re not in, I need to know by noon.”
“Why then?”
“Because that’s the cutoff for us to infil over land.”
“Drive up there?”
“Roger that. Turtle’s Little Bird flew us up here, so we could talk to you. His team got their kit and vehicle together and has been driving this way. Should be here in about an hour and a half. We’re headed northwest of here and will have to move slow.”
“That’s ISIS-held territory. You’ll never make it.”
“Probably not.”
“That’s just stupid. Why the hell would you do that?”
“You once told me, a long time ago, that you wished you had handled things differently … with Bill, I mean. That you regretted it. That made a big impression on me. I’m not going to have any regrets. I don’t think you want them, either.”
The reference to Bill caught me off guard. For an instant I was back at West Point.
“Sam, don’t let that happen with the Guru. Help us stop it. Don’t regret anything this time.”
He turned and walked away. Turtle put the van in gear. Zack opened the door and got in.
Decide who you will be and then be him.
I stepped over as Zack closed his door and rolled down the window.
“I’ll need lat/longs for the PZ and LZ and whatever timeline you’ve planned so far. My main concern is fuel.”
Turtle pumped his fist. “Hell yeah!”
“Roger that. Can you meet us at this address in about two hours?” Zack handed me a folded piece of paper.
“Yes, but first I need to talk some other crazy bastards into helping.”
FOUR
AUGUST 1987
I first met the Guru after the march back to West Point from Lake Frederick. It was a long march at the end of a long summer.
I’d been assigned to room 5324 in Scott Barracks with Cisco Guerrero, and we were trying to get moved in.
Cisco was a second-generation Cuban American and army brat. His father had gained citizenship after enlisting in the army and serving in Vietnam and had then gone on to become a command sergeant major. He had dragged his family all over the world. Growing up never spending more than two years in any one spot had imbued Cisco with an adaptability and resilience I came to envy. He was also a troublemaker. His father had sent him to a military boarding high school to try to straighten him out. It must have worked, because he’d made it to West Point. Barely.
Cisco also possessed an army brat’s indifference to rank. He’d grown up around it, so the system lacked any mystery or menace in his eyes. His father had been the highest-ranking U.S. Army enlisted man in Europe when they were stationed there, responsible for the welfare and readiness of over a hundred thousand soldiers under arms. To Cisco, though, this accomplished and powerful soldier was just his father. He was fallible and imperfect.
And yet reporting to our academic barracks terrified Cisco as much as me.
These barracks were different from the ones we had lived in that summer. Referred to as “the Divisions,” they were old, having been built in the thirties. Rather than forty-plus rooms on the same hallway, they had four rooms per floor, stacked one on top of another. A stairway ran up the middle of each division, serving as a vertical hallway that connected the five floors. Each division was numbered. The Corps of Cadets called the divisions that housed E4 “the Lost Fifties” because of their location on the extreme western edge of the cadet area, next to the gym.
After the march back, Cisco and I dropped our rucksacks on our beds before heading out the door again to get the rest of our gear. Pinging out into the hallway, we ran into a cadet’s trunk that had not been there moments earlier. I nearly fell over it and into the lap of the cadet seated in a chair on the other side.
“Whoa there, stud,” said the upperclassman. I righted myself and stood at rigid attention. “Hey, smack,” he said, gesturing to Cisco, “stand next to your classmate. I can’t see you behind him.”
“Yes, sir.” Cisco moved to my left side. We stood facing the upperclassman. There was a silver mess hall pitcher of water and a mess hall glass on the trunk.
“You’re slow, Guerrero. You ping like a damn turtle.”
“No excuse, sir.” Cisco was shorter than the average cadet, but more muscular. He moved his stout frame deliberately and often did not convey the sense of urgency that upperclassmen expected.
“Your name is Turtle from now on.”
“Yes, sir.”
I couldn’t tell if he was a yearling, cow, or firstie, because he wore only his cadet-issue robe and shower flip-flops. I hoped he was a yearling, since the newly risen sophomores of West Point tended to take it easier on plebes.
I was most scared of cows, the third-year cadets. Corps legend said they got their name over 150 years ago, when cadets were not allowed to take their first leave until after the completion of their second year. This inspired the adage “When a man goes to West Point, he doesn’t come home until the cows come home.” Though the academy’s leave policies had since changed, the nickname had not; nor had the fact that cows were generally the meanest of the classes.
His cadet robe was covered in old military unit patches, which gave it an impressive bathroom flight-jacket appearance. There were two cigars in its pocket.
“Do not gaze at my robe, Cadet Avery.” His voice was stern.
“Yes, sir.” I swiveled my eyes off his robe and looked him in the face. His hair was curly, sandy blond, and so long that it was only barely within regulations.
A grin spread across his face, exposing his teeth and dimpling his cheeks. His eyes crinkled at the corners. I would learn that his classmates referred to this as his “Loki grin” because it meant mischief.
“Long road march, huh?” he said in a conversational tone.
“Yes, sir.”
“Have you guys been drinking enough water?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Good. Why don’t you drink some more?” He motioned to Cisco. “Pour yourself a glass of water, Turtle. It’s very important to stay hydrated. Don’t you think, New Cadet Avery?”
The cadre had harped on hydration the entire march back. They would have been held responsible for any of us who fell out as “heat casualties,” so, with classic military overreaction, we were told to drink water every fifteen minutes. Our bladders had suffered. My stomach was already taut and uncomfortable. I didn’t like where this was going.
“Yes, sir.”
“Good. Recite ‘The Corps’ for me, please.”
“The Corps” is a hymn that was written in the early 1900s and has since become foundational to the academy. Sung by the cadet Glee Club at most important events, its verses are embedded in every cadet’s mind by the time they graduate. It was primary among our plebe knowledge during the summer and was hammered into us daily. “Sir, ‘The Corps’!” I said, and I launched into it while Turtle drank water.
“The Corps! The Corps! The Corps!
The Corps, bareheaded, salute it,
With eyes up, thanking our God.”
“Now pour New Cadet Avery a glass of water,” the upperclassman told Turtle. “When he begins to drink, you will pick up ‘The Corps’ where he leaves off.” He turned his attention to me. “More feeling, Avery. It’s a goddamn important poem, not a grocery list.” I tried to liven up my enunciation. He arched his eyebrows and rolled his eyes in mock appreciation.
Suddenly Turtle was holding the glass of water in front of me. I grabbed it and started to drink. Turtle stuttered a bit and then continued:
“We sons of today, we salute you.
You sons of an earlier day;
We follow, close order, behind you,
Where you have pointed the way;
The long gray line of us stretches,
Thro’ the years of a century told.”
“Not a smooth transition, Turtle. I think your performance is being hindered by your dehydrated state.” He reached down behind the trunk and produced a canteen. “Drink this, please.” He handed it to Turtle. “When you have finished that canteen, continue where New Cadet Avery leaves off.”
This went on for a long time. It was terrible. I was bloated. Turtle and I started to spill as much water as possible down our chins as we drank. Our uniforms became soaked in front. He seemed to quiz us on the entire contents of Bugle Notes, a book we had been issued our first day that contained all of the plebe knowledge we were responsible for. It was small, so it could fit in a cargo pocket, but over a hundred pages long. We had to memorize everything in it during Beast Barracks.
Finally, the cadet held up his hand. I stopped reciting Schofield’s Definition of Discipline and Turtle stopped drinking.
“I am Cadet Stillmont. Most cadets call me Guru. You will not call me Guru until I authorize it. I am a cow and your squad leader, and you will be sharing this floor with me until Christmas leave. As your squad leader, I will be assigning numerous duties to you, but we will start with the basics. Make sure I get my newspaper every day, my mail and laundry when they’re due, and that you’ve mastered all your required knowledge. Do not ever embarrass me. You are my plebes now. You are a reflection on me. Are my standards clear to you, new cadets?”
“Yes, sir,” we said.
He looked at both of us for a long moment. “Do you know how to properly greet your company mates?”
“Sir, the company motto is ‘Go Elephants.’”
“The Corps has,” he said, sadly shaking his head. Short for “The Corps has gone to hell,” it is an old saying that has been declared by upperclassmen and old grads for centuries. By the end of that summer, my classmates and I had heard it a thousand times.
“I hate that Beast Barracks bullshit,” the Guru continued. “Gentlemen, the proper greeting to other members of E4 is ‘Go naked.’”