Princes of War (42 page)

27

By 1725, the Wolfhounds were back on FOB Apache. They’d conducted another 25 home censuses and called it quits.

Half an hour later Wynn sat with Petty in the JOC, discussing the morning’s operation. Initially, Petty conducted a kind of clinical evaluation, as if neither one of them had been personally involved. He had a way of doing that, as if he was analyzing an experiment he’d read about. After a while, Wynn slowed the conversation down, explaining in greater detail key points of the operation. He told Petty about the hurried approach, the excitement of the men, the RPG firing, going in, the layout of the brick factory, and assaulting the kilns. Finally, he talked about finding the female sniper. Finding her dead. After less than an hour, Petty knew all the essentials.

Petty, pleased, had the jovial grin of a boy who won a game convincingly. He liked to win. Wynn hadn’t used the word “win” to describe what happened, but it didn’t matter. Wins had not come often enough, and that’s how Petty interpreted this.

Both hated the thought of losing. Even a half win was fantastic.

“The warehouse papers had a goldmine of information,” Petty said. “Without you guys getting those we had squat. Now we got info on money trails, safe houses, and informants, a big catch on the female Chechen. They’d been using that place for storage and hideaways for months. It’s amazing how connected internationally some of these groups are. It’s like terrorism’s the new frontier for globalization.”

“Why do you think nobody talked before?” Wynn asked. “With all the detainees. All the interviews and questioning. Nobody spilled the beans on that place.”

“Same reason why we don’t ever get much valuable information. I’ll give you a one-word answer: fear. Folks are scared. Their lives, their families’ lives—everything they have is on the line. Why talk? Think about it. Why should they talk?”

Petty paused, looking for Wynn to express an opinion. Wynn said nothing. Petty gave his own answer. “People don’t talk when silence is the better option. Silence is safer. Less risky. Think about it—rarely does not talking get you in trouble. If talking doesn’t improve their odds, doesn’t help them get safer than they are, people keep quiet. Play it safe. Don’t rock the boat. Mind your own business. That’s true everywhere. Especially in wartime. It’s as old as time, man.”

Wynn didn’t respond. Petty was exactly right. Wynn looked out the small window. The view outside was unpleasant, the dry ground mottled with a pale grass, contesting a muddy spot where someone overwatered an under-tended garden. The land here was hungry for improvement. Anything alive was fragile and uncertain. True, too, of her citizens. A weak mango-colored light bathed the yard outside as the sun softened steadily, the heat less dominant. A subdued atmosphere, tired, less sure of itself, settled over the late day. Soon night would hide it all again. Another day done. Another task tomorrow.

Ordinary people were almost helpless in this situation. The huge weight of their immediate dangers, their brittle everyday lives, all the uncertainty of the present, the corrosive fear of the future, left them adrift. They were either pawns in a big chess game or sand on the beach. Used ruthlessly, or irrelevant.

Petty looked at Wynn as a tenured professor looks at his student, and said, “Intelligence information is a funny thing. Most days we get nothing but trash. Just garbage, everyday writings and jabberings. With only a handful of analysts, the work we can process locally is pitiful. We send lots of stuff higher, of course. They have more analysts. Some of it might be good, but we get little back. If it’s local stuff, you want to look at it. At least try to determine the motives of who provided the info. Sometimes it’s vendetta action going on.”

Petty let out a long sigh, as if he was resigned to accepting all the usual limitations. Then he started again. “But then something like this warehouse stuff comes in. Makes you forget your bad days.”

“Remember the warehouse stuff didn’t tell us where the sniper was. A little old lady did that,” Wynn reminded him.

“I realize that.”

Petty now had the look of a man trying to get a valuable contract signed. Wynn could tell that something had been left unsaid. Both men waited, quieted by a mutual recognition of how little they could be confident about, but how nice it felt to get something right.

Then there was the core human element: why men did what they did.

“You get to be out there, man,” Petty said, making reference to the Wolfhounds’ combat role. “You’re out front. The lead dog, so to speak. We Intel geeks are back here in the bowels, working the shit. Then spitting it out.”

“Yeah, and we have to eat it.”

Petty smiled at the reply. A long pause separated them. When he continued, his voiced buzzed with derision. “You know that retarded boy. He was there with his father. The father told interrogators this afternoon that he believed that by having his son with him in PFA, he would get him closer to God. Can you believe that? “

Wynn couldn’t believe it, but he said nothing right away.

“I still can’t get the female bit,” Wynn said, after another delay. “Never will. Female Chechen sniper? Who would have thought.”

“It’s crazy that nothing makes sense,” said Petty, as if he read Wynn’s mind.

“I wonder who shot her,” said Wynn. “There’s no way to be sure.”

Wynn stopped talking again. Part of him still wanted to believe the Wolfhounds had killed the sniper.

“Maybe they killed her themselves to turn off the heat,” offered Petty, alternatively, without believing it.

“I doubt that. And the truth is we got her more by luck than detailed investigation.”

“Relationships. Relationships with locals made it happen,” Petty said.

Wynn looked across the room at the large flat screen with the electronic map. A scattering of multicolored symbols marked the map. The screen radiated sophistication and purposefulness, possible only through man’s ingenuity and inventiveness. Thousands of miniature special parts constructed of thousands of different types of materials. Each color meant something. Geometric shapes on the screen meant things. Other lines and markings on the map helped the viewer organize his thoughts. All so ordered, so technical. Man mastered the atom, but continued to struggle to understand the basics of human nature.

Wynn looked at Petty and spoke. “A little old lady who sells eggs told us what we needed,” he said quietly, as if he still needed to persuade himself.

Petty stared him. Wynn wondered whether Petty could tell he was dog-tired. Wynn was unshaven, dark stains shaded his eye sockets, his lips dry and thin. He needed a meal and a good sleep.

“We won one. Let’s get some more,” Petty added.

Wynn left the headquarters. As he walked towards the exit gate, CPT Baumann came out of an adjacent building where the battalion commander had his office and called out to him. As Baumann neared, Wynn studied his face for portent. Bad news on Tyson? Baumann would probably hear first.

“You did well today, Christian. Your platoon did well. I’m happy. So is battalion.”

Wynn breathed easier, absorbing the praise. Baumann was rather sparing with positive comments, so when he did spread praise it meant more. Their gazes met and lingered, and Wynn had a sudden feeling that Baumann was monitoring something deep inside him that he couldn’t put into words.

“Thanks, Sir. The guys did super.”

He studied Baumann the way a musician studies his conductor, attentive, anticipating, wanting to please. Wynn felt uneasy about raising the subject of Tyson, as if it would be bad luck.

“Tyson’s serious but stable. That’s the word they’re giving us. He’s going to make it. He’s in Baghdad now,” Baumann reported, anticipating Wynn’s question.

“Good to hear. It was a very bad wound,” Wynn said. The report wasn’t much information, but it was positive. A feeling of relief came into him as he thought about telling his men. They would be glad for the news. Making them feel better would make him feel better.

“Poor bastard,” Baumann added. “But apparently the bullet missed his spine. That was the main thing. Of course they’ll have to rebuild this face. I have no idea how much damage to his mouth. Probably major.”

“Got to be.”

“We’ll keep getting updates on him to you guys. He’ll probably be back in the States within a week.”

“Thanks, Sir.”

“How’s Moog?”

“He’s fine. He’s already back to duty, Sir.”

“Tell those Wolfhounds of yours, I said, ‘Well done.’”

“Yes, Sir.”

“One more thing,” continued Baumann, “and this is kind of odd. Remember that wounded guy we captured at the brick factory?”

“Yeah.”

“Well, they’ve had him in the Aid Station here since we brought him. Apparently he’s been hallucinating and talking a lot whenever he’s conscious. He was talking so much the Docs brought in an interpreter. He’s missing an eye, and he told the Docs that a man with just a thumb gouged his eye out. That made me think of the report you wrote me about your last Amir visit, when you mentioned a Mr. Thumb.”

Wynn went rigid. Could Sheikh Amir’s Haider have anything to do with this?

“Hmmm. I’ll try and find out.”

After Baumann dismissed him, Wynn walked back to the platoon area. He found Cooke and told him about Tyson. He told Cooke to go tell the men. Wynn went to find Cengo and call Amir.

About an hour after Cooke had come by with the news of Tyson, Kale and Moose sat across from each other in Kale’s trailer. They were alone. Moose had come back from the gym. Sweat glistened on his neck. Kale had told him about Tyson. Kale now eyed his friend, a mixture of admiration and envy coursing through him as he measured Moose the way a man at a horse race might evaluate the winner.

“Pretty rough what happened to Tyson,” Kale said.

“Yeah. I went by the Aid Station on the way to the gym, to see if they’d heard any more details. Nobody had. Figured he’d have left me a love note at least, but no. He didn’t do that either.”

“I hope he makes out OK. The bastard has him a ticket home now,” Kale said, scratching his head with the nubs of his fingernails. “Fucking raw deal.” He looked for emotion in Moose and saw none.

Moose turned his head to the left and looked down at the floor. He stared downwards for several long seconds, as if checking his shoes. He must be thinking about Tyson, Kale thought, waiting for Moose to take up the conversation. He wanted him to say something that would reveal weakness. But Moose stayed mute.

Finally, Kale changed the subject. “When we got back, I heard Cengo say that the Iraqis will be grateful. I hope he is right.”

“Fucking Iraqis,” Moose said, “I don’t see much gratitude in his country.”

“Come on, man. He’s not part of all that. He’s a Kurd anyways. The dude loves us.”

“We need to put a wall around this place. Nobody gets in or out. We come back in a thousand years and see what’s left.”

“Huh? The Kurds are different. You know that. Even a lot of the other Iraqis are. They don’t want this mess. Nobody would.”

Moose didn’t reply right away. He wiped his dripping brow with the open palm of his hand, looking firmly at Kale. Kale saw skepticism in Moose’s eyes.

“Speaking of different, I heard you did well today, buddy. The guys were talking,”

Kale suppressed a grin. Was it true, or just Moose trying to make him happy? “Don’t know about that. I did my job.”

“Fuck, dude. You were right there in it, on one of the teams. We got that bitch. You ought to feel good about that, soldier!”

Moose’s voice showed no condescension. He meant it. Kale let the positive feeling rise up inside him. Yes—he had been out in it. And the whole time he’d felt as if someone was tattooing directions to hell on his nerves. But he
had
been there. Being there—as he’d told himself before—was pretty damn important.

“It does feel great to have smacked the bastards that killed that boy,” Kale said softly, as if he was explaining something complicated to a child.

“You bet it does. OK. I’m off to the shower to wash this nasty ass.”

Moose stood up, looking down at Kale. His expression said that he was assessing a yet-to-be-finished story.

Kale fidgeted with his boot. “OK. I think I’ll walk down to the phone bank and try to call Serena again.”

“Tell her for me that if she ever gets tired of you, I’m still available. But I can’t promise her for how long,” Moose ribbed, a devil’s smile on his face.

“Fuck you,” Kale replied. “You ain’t got what it takes. She wouldn’t give you the time of day.”

“Shittt!”

Moose walked out and left the door open. Kale watched him go. He strode away with the assurance of a winner, hulking, carefree, bath towel over his shoulder, shower kit dangling at the end of long rope that he held in a massive hand. Kale watched him for maybe half a minute, until he passed around a corner of a group of trailers and disappeared down the path to the shower stalls. Kale got up slowly and went over to the door. He looked skyward, through the dim illumination of the FOB lights, and beyond, to the gray gulf of space, and far away towards what some men called the heavens. Then he closed the door and turned off the light in the trailer, and sat back down in the dark.
      

28

Wynn and Cengo waited just inside FOB Apache’s main gate. They waited on Amir. It was almost 2200, the scheduled time for Sheikh Amir to arrive. The night air felt like warm broth. After hearing Baumann’s report that Haider, also-known-as Mr. Thumb, might have had an encounter with one of the wounded insurgents found at the brick factory, Wynn had called Amir. He asked Amir bluntly if he knew whether Haider had some connection to the PFA insurgent group. At first Amir pleaded ignorance, but didn’t make an outright denial. When Wynn had finally said that he wanted to question Haider, Amir offered to come talk. “Not on cell phone,” he said. Wynn accepted that, and was happy to meet face-to-face. Amir, surprisingly, was agreeable to meeting right away.

Soon the gate security guards told Wynn his visitor had arrived. Wynn walked to the checkpoint. A black BMW with dark-tinted windows waited outside the barrier. FOB security personnel checked the car and scanned the undercarriage. A rear window rolled down. Amir held out his hand to Wynn, who took it. An Iraqi driver and one other man, not Haider, were in the car with Amir.