“By then they’ll be gone,” I told him, looking at the glowing images of the fishermen. But even as I said it, I realized it was hopeless. There was nothing Kelly could do. Bam Bam had made it clear that all operations in a place as dangerous as Samarra had to be done under cover of night. The last thing anyone wanted was another Mogadishu.
Once more it looked like Muhammad Ibrahim had slipped away. All I had to even prove he existed was a faint heat trace on a computer screen. Exhausted I sat alone at the dining room table. I thought I could never feel as discouraged I as did right then. But that was before I checked the score of the OU–Kansas State game. The Sooners had been taken apart. Their chances for the championship were all but over.
Chapter 15
OUT OF TIME
Bam Bam was crystal clear: we wouldn’t be going back to the fish farm that night. I knew that he had as much at stake as any of us in seeing the mission succeed. But he was too good of a leader to let his emotions get in the way.
That doesn’t mean I didn’t do my best to talk him into it. “The two Muhammads are at the fish farm,” I pleaded with him. “I’m one hundred percent certain.” Kelly shot me a dirty look. We all remembered what happened the last time I made a confident prediction based on percentages. But this time Kelly actually agreed. “We’ve still got a couple of hours before daylight,” he said. “If we went now we could be in and out before morning. We could just grab whoever’s there and head back.”
“We can go tomorrow,” Bam Bam answered calmly. “We have no assets or support from Baghdad. They agreed to go on this raid and we can’t afford to piss them off.”
Kelly and I should have known enough to back off. But I could feel everything we worked for so long and hard slipping away. We couldn’t let that happen. “As soon as we started going after Muhammad Ibrahim in Tikrit, he went to Samarra,” I said. “Now, since we did the hit on Muhammad Khudayr’s, he knows we’ve followed him there. He’s sure to make a run for somewhere else and this time we may not be able to figure out where he went. This may be the last time he’s even in this area.”
Bam Bam didn’t budge. “First of all, we don’t know for sure it’s him out at that pond. Second, if it was him, he obviously feels safe there. If it’s him, he’ll probably come back. We’ll do the hit tomorrow.” He picked up his gear and just before he went upstairs he turned to me and asked, “How did the Sooners do tonight?” He either didn’t know they’d got beaten or it was his way of sending me a message. Earlier that day I had guaranteed an OU victory over Kansas State. That didn’t happen. Maybe I didn’t always know what I was talking about. Maybe I was wrong about the raid, too.
All I could think about were those two infrared silhouettes on the computer screen. Even if we got lucky and managed to find Muhammad Ibrahim at the fish farm again, I would still be facing the challenge of getting him to talk. Over these past few weeks, we had staked everything on the capture of this one man. And there was only one thing worth getting from him: the location of Saddam.
Having dealt with so many of Muhammad Ibrahim’s inner circle, I knew the intense loyalty they had for him. Abu Drees, Thamir Al-Asi, Farris Yasin: these men had been difficult, if not impossible, to break. What would I be letting myself in for when I came up against their leader? Could I even get him to acknowledge that he was a terrorist, much less that he was taking his orders from Saddam? I had wished more than anything else to be able to find Muhammad Ibrahim. In those early morning hours, tossing and turning in my cot, I reminded myself to be careful what I wished for.
The second raid on the fish farm got under way at 0200 the next day. From the start, it looked like we might get a break. Just like the night before, the two fishermen appeared in the surveillance monitor and launched from the shore in their dinghy. This time Baghdad saw it on their system, too. Kelly and I resisted the temptation to get on the radio and tell them I told you so.
After a half hour, the two men rowed back to shore and headed for the fishing shack with their catch. This was almost too easy. There was no place for them to go, no place left to run. We had them cornered. As Kelly and I watched on the screen, the shooters rushed in and secured the location. The radio crackled to life. Two PAKs had been detained. Kelly and I looked at each other. Congratulations were in order—almost.
Then, after a tense twenty-minute wait, another message came through: a dry hole. They were bringing in some detainees, but not the ones we were after.
No way! I thought to myself as I sank back into my chair. Kelly just stared at the computer, a stunned look on his face. Was this the punch line to some kind of sick joke? I had been given every resource available to complete this mission. The men I was honored to work with were the best soldiers in the world, and they were led by an aggressive and courageous commander under whom it had been my distinct privilege to serve. We had a top-notch analyst, a team of dedicated interpreters, and even three prisoners who had worked tirelessly for us. And yet we still couldn’t get this son-of-a-bitch. Was he ever even at the fish farm? Was he ever anywhere? Did he even exist?
I felt like I was losing my mind, but I had to pull myself together. I turned to Kelly. “What do you want me to do now?” I asked.
He continued staring at the screen. “I wanted to wait to tell you this,” he said at last in a voice barely above a whisper. “Baghdad called earlier. You need to catch the next flight back. I could have kept you here if we’d found Muhammad Ibrahim, but it doesn’t look like that happened. You’re going home. There’s a helicopter due in at 2100 Monday night. You’re supposed to be on it.” He looked at his watch. “They’re picking you up in seventeen hours, Eric.”
So that was it. My time in Tikrit had officially come to an end. I felt numb. My worst expectations had come to pass. I was leaving without completing my mission. I had interrogated hundreds of prisoners; interviewed scores of informants; wracked my brain to break open the insurgent network that was wreaking havoc on the country; worked endless hours and talked myself hoarse. And it was all for nothing. In seventeen hours I’d be gone and none of it would have made any real difference.
It was time to go back to the guesthouse and start packing my gear. I stood up. “Is there anyone else we need to be looking for?” Kelly asked me as I walked to the door.
“I don’t have anything right now,” I replied in a hollow voice. “I’m sorry.”
Kelly did his best to raise my spirits. “I’ll have photos of the two PAKs from the fish farm sent up here,” he told me. “It’s probably a good idea to have Basim and the boys take a look at them. Who knows, we may have one of the two Muhammads without knowing it.”
I doubted it. The shooters knew our targets. My misgivings were confirmed a couple of hours later when Kelly brought the digital mug shots in. I showed them to the Basim, Amir, and Luay but none of them recognized the men captured at the fish pond.
I couldn’t help it. I vented my frustration on the three prisoners, focusing my anger on Basim. “Look at the fucking pictures again, you asshole,” I shouted. “You think these guys just decided to show up and fish two nights in a row? Who the hell are they?”
They looked at the photos, then back to me, each with the same helpless expression on their face. I think they were just as confused and discouraged as I was. I took a deep breath and tried to calm down. What was my next move?
Obviously I needed to talk to the two detainees who had been rolled up at the fish farm. The only problem was, I didn’t have access to them. Since we had found the money, Baghdad’s interest and involvement had disrupted the smooth-running interrogation system we had established. The prisoners had been taken back to BIAP. They’d be questioned there.