The Profession (2 page)

“Where’s the party?”

“We brought it, babies.”

The merc introduces himself as Chris Candelaria and shakes my hand and the others’. His ring says SEAL Team Six. He wears another that I don’t see, under the Nomex glove on his left hand: the Wharton School. The team he’s leading is from DSF, Dienstleister Schwarze Flagge, the crack German–South African outfit that evolved in the twenties out of the Zimbabwean Selous Scouts. He just got out of Isfahan five hours ago, he says. Dried blood paints both his hands and arms; the shoulder of his jacket has been charred through; he’s got a dust-caked battle dressing on his neck, above an ear whose bottom third is scorched black and slathered with green combat antiseptic. But he’s grinning. Like me, he wears a beard. His hair is long and falls in a cascade of black ringlets.

“You guys going in there?” he asks. From our rise south of the highway, we can see Dragonfly drones in swarms over the city. Every punk-ass gang and militia is flying these little fuckers, some the
size of kites, others no bigger than pie plates. The streaks of their rockets—high-explosive and flechette—blow away in the wind. “Want some help?”

The merc and I do a quick map orientation, marking the in-city locations and the routes, order, and sequence we’ll use to approach them. What about supporting fires, I ask. Our team has zero; has he got Close Air Support, drones, anything?

The cupboard is bare, the merc says. “It’s just you and me, partner. We are officially OOO”—On Our Own—“and SOL.” Shit Outa Luck.

The contractor has a case of Jack Daniel’s in the lead Kodiak. Standing at the rear doors, he passes us two bottles for each vehicle. He’s got cups but no ice. He introduces the rest of his team, who are more comm guys than trigger pullers. I note two DSFers packing Heckler & Koch 416s, German superguns, with 40 mm grenade launchers underslung. On the truck’s roof squats a donut satlink receiver in a fiberglass cover; inside the vehicle I note a bank of tech gear, including a Xenor encryption box.

“What kind of team are you leading?” I ask.

“We’re a financial unit. I’m specking oil and gas contracts. Haven’t had a rifle in my hands for seven years!”

I’m laughing now. So is Chutes. “Thanks for the help, bro.”

“I’m coming from an embassy ball,” says Chris, indicating his tux. He nods toward the trucks and guns. “We grabbed this shit and ran.”

He tells us Isfahan is burning. Tehran too. Mobs are storming the U.S. embassy—and the embassies of the Russians and the Chinese. He doesn’t know who’s attacking whom. He has caught snatches on al-Alam, the Iranian satellite channel, about a rising in Saudi Arabia; the fear in the West, says the report, is of a Shiite sweep across southern Iraq and into the Eastern Province of Saudi Arabia. Or maybe it’s all bullshit. The one thing the merc can tell us for sure is the nearest safety is across two hundred miles of hell. “Salter’s at
Kirkuk with two armatures, moving toward the Iranian border. If we can get to him, we’re home free.”

He means our Force Insertion commander, Gen. James Salter. An armature is the equivalent of the old conventional-army airmobile division. The word comes from Latin, meaning equipment or armor. Force Insertion has, along the Iraq-Iran border, four armatures with all supporting arms including artillery (105- and 155 mm howitzers), drone and truckborne antiarmor, and air defense in the form of mobile Chinese I-SAM rocket trucks. Salter’s air assault complement, we know, is at near full strength, meaning each armature has three battalions of extended-range Black Hawk and up-gunned War Hawk choppers, a battalion of heavy Chinooks, plus seventy-two owner-operated AH-64 Apache attack helicopters, all outfitted with the latest aftermarket Chinese, Czech, and Israeli missile technology, American and Indian avionics and satcomms, and flown by American, Russian, South African, Australian, Polish, and British mercs, most of whom have in the old days been majors, lieutenant colonels, and colonels in their respective conventional air forces. Our new friend eyes our ragged-ass gear, which looks like it came from Operation Iraqi Freedom, and the faces of our guys—Chutes Savarese, Junk Olsen, Adrian “Q” Quinones, Marcus Aurelius “Mac” Jones, and Tony Singh, our six-foot-four Hindu from Sri Lanka. He indicates the city.

“Gentlemen, as Sarpedon said to Glaucus, ‘Let us go forth and win glory—or cede it to others.’ ”

Chutes is grinning. “What’s your name again, man?”

“Chris Candelaria.”

“Chris, you’re my kinda dude.”

They bump elbows. In we go.

Nazirabad is situated at the juncture of two highways—8, which runs north-south, and 41, east-west. The three-level interchange and
its security station, Checkpoint 290, is the funnel through which all motorized entry and egress is channeled. There’s an industrial slum to the north called Ali City, from which most of the bad actors come—tribal militias, criminal gangs, Mahdi revivalists, cabals of displaced army officers, as well as Jaish al-Sha’b, “Army of the People,” which has replaced AQP—al-Qaeda in Persia—plus every imaginable hue of nationalist, separatist, and irredentist forces, including foreign fighters—Turks, Chechens, Syrians, Saudis, Uzbeks, Tajiks, Uighurs, as well as Shiite Kurds, Afghan Hazaras, and Lebanese.

As recently as ten years ago, Nazirabad was a secure, attractive tourist destination. Brochures called it the “city of artists.” The Old Town had four souks, one entirely for tiles, another for decorative ironwork—gates, lamps, chandeliers. Nazirabad had two synagogues, believe it or not, and a Christian bookstore. A woman could walk alone and bareheaded, even after dark. Eighteen months ago, when our team deployed, a foreigner could still get a private villa, with cook, driver, and laundress. No more. In the space of ten weeks, since the start of the third Iran-Iraq war, the place has degenerated to a level of violence equal to Baghdad or Ramadi twenty-five years earlier—and the last half year has been even worse.

We take side streets into the city, bypassing Checkpoint 290. The sun is dropping fast. Mac has made radio contact with our engineers; they have abandoned the company compound and made their way to a safe house (actually the home of their supervisor’s father) on Espresso Street, a well-to-do boulevard so named because it has the only Starbucks within five hundred miles. The only problem is that Espresso Street has become the epicenter for whatever conflagration is currently consuming the city.

We approach from the west, so the sun is behind us. We can see Iranian-badged Hind gunships overhead, putting out rocket and machine-gun fire—probably at sniper teams on rooftops—and see
the propellant trails of heat seekers and SFRs, shoulder-fired rockets, corkscrewing up in response. I’m navigating by the electrical power lines, which run along central thoroughfares and are the only objects taller than three stories in the city. In an urban firefight, you can’t simply race to the action like a fire truck toward a burning building. You have to patrol up to it, employing “movement to contact,” which basically means keep advancing until somebody starts shooting at you. Our engineers are talking us in over line-of-sight squad radios, which work for two seconds and then break up as buildings and vehicles intervene. “How close are you to the fight?” I speak into my mike.

“We
are
the fight!” comes the answer.

Espresso Street, when we enter it, is as broad as a boulevard and sizzling with spent shell casings, smoking bricks, rubble, and blocks of concrete-and-rebar and is pocked by craters from which ruptured water-main fluid floods, mingling with raw sewage, garbage, and gasoline to form an inch-deep burning lake across the welcome-to-hell cityscape. We pass one Russian-built Iranian T-79 tank coming out, protecting two gun trucks with wounded regulars inside and on top. Local civilians are running up to my window and Chutes’s, shouting that there are snipers on such and such a rooftop or drone swarms above such and such a block. Unarmed boys race on foot toward the action, just for the excitement. We see a press pickup, with “TV” on the windshield in masking tape. Chutes is my driver. The boom box blares Bloodstone’s “Death or Dismemberment”:

Cars are burning in the middle of the street; we’re jinking around downed phone poles. Adrenaline is flooding through me; I can tell
because the pulse hemometer on my wrist reads out at 180/15. But my subjective experience is the opposite. I’m cool. The hotter it gets outside, the cooler I become. This is nothing I can take credit for or claim to have achieved by virtue of training or application of will. I was born this way. When I was nine years old and my old man would wallop the tar out of me for some infraction of his demented code of honor, I would stare up at him icy eyed and not feel a twinge of rage, even though I could have and would have killed him on the spot if I had taken a notion to. I was remote. I was detached. I felt like another person was inside me. This other person was me, only stronger and crueler, more cunning and more deadly.

I never told anyone about this secret me. I was afraid they might think I was crazy, or try to take this other me away, or convince me that I should be ashamed of him. I wasn’t. I loved him. In sports or fistfights, in moments of crisis or decision, I cut loose my conventional self and let this inner me take over. He never hesitated. He never second-guessed. Later, in combat, when I began to experience fragments of recall that were clearly not from this lifetime, I knew at once that these memories were connected to my secret self. They were his memories. I was only the temporary vessel in which they were housed.

This secret self is whom I surrender to now, entering Nazirabad. I become him. I feel fear. At times it threatens to overwhelm me. But my secret self pays no attention. I hear the gunships overhead and see the vapor trails of their rockets. A man must be crazy, I think, to head of his own free will
toward
that. But at the same time, no force beneath heaven can keep me away. This is what I was born for. I’m geeked out of my skull—and I’m curious. I want to see what’s up ahead. How bad is it? What kind of fucked-up shit will we run into this time?

In action there is no such thing as thought, only instinct. We blow
past two sharp exchanges of fire and suddenly there’s the house. Our engineers have spray-painted on the compound wall

in block letters two feet high. I wave to the other trucks: Keep moving. We can’t burst in on our own engineers or their bodyguards will shoot us, not to mention the wicked stream of fire that is pouring onto the compound from rooftops and circling drones and is now zeroing on us.

“I know the place!” Chutes is shouting across at me. We accelerate past the rusty front gates—seven feet tall and perforated like cheese graters by .50-cal fire—and swerve hard left into an alley. Chutes is bawling across the seat at me. I can’t hear a word but I understand from his gestures: there’s a way in, from the rear, which we can access from one of the myriad cross-channels if we can find it. I’m raising the engineers and telling them to hold their fire when they see the rear gate blow in. “I will throw a flash-bang,” I enunciate with exaggerated clarity into the Motorola mike duct-taped to the right shoulder of my Kev-lite vest. “When you see the flash, run straight out to us.”

Nothing works in combat the way you think it will. It takes us almost twenty minutes to cover the two hundred feet to the rear compound gate. By then our besieged engineers are too petrified to stick a toe out. Snipers are on every rooftop, with rocketmen racing up, more every minute. We break in the gate with our Lada Neva’s tailboard and are just starting in reverse across the court to the rear entry of the house, when one of the security men—a Fijian, no taller than five-foot-two, probably making forty bucks a day—appears in the rear egress, shouting, “IED! IED!” and pointing to the dirt drive over which our truck is about to roll. Three 155 mm artillery
shells sit unburied, big as life, with their wires exposed, lining the south side of the lane. “Brake!” I shout to Chutes. The Fijian dives back into the house, one nanosecond ahead of a fusillade of 7.62 fire that blows the jamb and the security door to powder. Chutes powers the Lada Neva back out through the gate, to safety behind the four-foot-thick main wall. “What the fuck do we do now?”

There’s nothing for us but to go in on foot, blasting every hajji triggerman on every rooftop as we go.

Junk, Q, and I bolt back through the gate. The rear door of the compound is about sixty yards away. We dash past a line of parked Toyota trucks and Tata/LUK compgas cars; I can hear the sheet metal shredding as gunfire pursues us. We can hear Iranian voices everywhere, not just on the overlooming buildings, but on the flat roof of the compound building itself. They know exactly what’s happening. They could trigger the IEDs right now and take us out, but they’re greedy—they want our vehicles, too. We dive into an alley and take cover beneath two gigantic air-conditioning units supported by pipe stanchions. I can hear one gunner on an overhead taunting us in English. Another in a baseball cap pops up behind the roof wall and starts firing. I jack myself left-handed into the clear and blow his head off. “Man!” shouts Junk, whooping.

I’m shouting to the Fijian, telling him we’re coming. “All!” I cry, pantomiming to the group. “Run for it!” Does he understand English? I can’t see him. Where are the engineers? The Fijian pops out again, flashing five fingers and a thumbs-up. Again gunfire shreds his nest as he plunges back inside. Junk and I spring out. Hajjis are pouring gunfire from rooftops and upper-story windows. Out of the corner of my eye, I see Junk take a hit and drop. “Go!” he’s shouting. “I’m okay!”

I reach the rear door. The engineers and two other Fijians crouch back in the dimness, which is dense with brick dust and smoke from the pulverized walls of the building. The engineers wear body armor
and blue civilian Kevlars. The security men have on nothing thicker than khaki; one dude is in flip-flops. “There!” I point to the alley where Junk and Q have taken cover. “Now!”